The Rotten Apple
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: Sherlock had rarely ever been offered a chance such as this, where everything he had ever worked for was within his reach. Just one problem, to get it he will have to give up that which he thought he would never find. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Prologue: Dynasty Decapitated

**THE ROTTEN APPLE**

Prologue: Dynasty Decapitated

* * *

 _To achieve decapitation one must make certain to perform a complete separation of the head from the rest of the body.  
It is instantly fatal since it deprives all other attached accessories of the unctions and leadership that are needed for the entity to operate._

In children's books, those meant only to entertain and distract the little monsters from pestering their parents much, there is this one ridiculous concept called ' _A happy ever after',_ where the villains —or basically any form of interesting people— are defeated and the main characters run off into the sunset to continue their dull, simplistic lives in non-believable, never-ending bliss. A fairytale told entirely by the perspective of the definite wrong side. However, real life is nothing alike to those stories, that is not how the universe works. In reality, those stories, if ever true —ignoring all the blown out details and the false spins of significant actions— go on way after the happy endings, and deep into normal progression of events. Anything, no matter how chaste and splendid it seems in the whimsical magic of fantasy, turns stale in the garish, authentic light.

Thus, after most battles were over and kingdoms had been won, the damsels rescued and the world was plunged back into that dreadful peace, there was something to be done to maintain that hard-won harmony; and for the heroes, and royals, and mundane good fairies, that essentially meant rounding up every villain, sidekick or arch-nemesis they could find and banishing them into a place where they could not disturb their perfect little world ever again. Says a lot about the level of evil they were trying to contain for them to actually prefer staying sequestered inside their fortresses than crossing paths with any of them.

After a grand council, the heroic and well-known for their transcendent —absurd— love story: King Ben and Queen Harriet of the house Watson, were elected as sole monarchs and united all known magical locations resulting in the formation of what is now called The United Kingdom of Auradon; a land of good fortune, and bliss, where everyone is, if not completely happy, then at least extremely content, —the annoying idiots. After serving for only one week, the famous rulers issued their first proclamation, and somewhat thirteen sun-cycles ago to the day numerous armies and champions attacked every lair and cave until they were able to pluck out every sign and trace of villainy from 'their rightful land' in what is now called _'The War of the Light'_. Snotty kings and queens inside lavish, ruling castles chose to eradicate any sort of threat or trouble maker —no matter how small— and lock them up in a sordid piece of land with water and a magical barrier surrounding it, so they were not only removed from their minds, but _trapped_ inside a physical cage with metaphorical bars. There to endure a punishment worse than death. A land which prides itself, and its inhabitants, for being the poster picture of clear and pure kindness, casted a cruel and petty spell on those which it deemed unworthy of their own prosperity.

So, the curse was set —for who could call it anything other than so?— and all those creatures were sentenced to live in total disgrace. Most of the powerful and mighty were forced to endure an existence of food scraps and absolutely no technological growth. Resorting to cave into the necessity of doing menial tasks as if they had not been the ruling force of the universe once. Made to stand watch as the whole kingdom continued on under the royal's idiotic lead.

The machiavellian dynasty was gruesomely executed and the vagabonds and never-do-wells were left in the perpetual state of betrayal and crime against each other until their old ways seemed blurred. Constantly switching back and forth between keeping The Isle going and actually living and thriving on chaos. No magic. No wifi. No way out.

Or so they thought.

The precious little heroes seemed to have forgotten about a very tiny detail: happiness is as treacherous and misleading as an evil genie, and no amount of their good-wishes and wizardly-forged barriers would be able to hold the most evil minds of the land, at least not for long. Every mortal or mythical being had to know that they would eventually find a way to break out. They only had to await an opportune possibility and the kings and queens will never see them coming —the morons.

Our real story starts right when things get _really_ fascinating, when one fool gets the brilliant idea to give them just that.

Welcome to the end of eras.

* * *

He was startled awake, ruthlessly brought back from the fantastical world of imagination to the land of the living. The recurring dreams were starting to mildly concern him. There was nothing particularly wrong with them. Nothing that could really be deemed worrying, yet something about them made him feel ill at ease, as if he were nervous about some uncertain outcome.

Rubbing away the sleepiness on his eyes and softly scratching his blonde hair he figured it was a lost cause trying to go back to rest now. The large window next to his bed still showed the last remnants of a sky clinging to darkness. The vastness and beauty of the kingdom in full display, lands of never-ending green edged by an open sea, and across from it, a gloomy island with a barely visible dome sitting on top of it. The first kaleidoscopic rays could be seen emerging from over the horizon, casting the sun's golden light upon land and isle alike. For him, looking out at the dichotomy of both places had seemed to become a habit; he failed to determine whether that was out of curiosity or recognition, but he was certain the sight of it had an impact on his soul each day, no matter if the imprint was positive or not. Or perhaps a bit of both.

He followed his natural day routine, attending to chores and obligations he was supposed to carry out for most of the day, until the sky had turned red, and then purple, and the whole daytime was invested in tasks which put a heavy strain on his troubled mind, always finding himself looking back out the window with a sigh trapped between his breath. Of course, not all days were like that. In reality, more often than not, he was quite an excitable and easy-going young man, yet the shadow of the island seemed to follow him wherever he went.

He spent his days in the same manner, up until he was given the opportunity to actually do something about the situation. That was the day he finally turned eighteen sun-cycles and his first privileges were granted. His rightful privileges as the next in line for King of the United Kingdom of Auradon. He may not had been crowned and named yet, but his reign had officially begun; and with that, came his ability to proclaim the law.

The tailor on his left kept measuring and asserting that his coronation attire would be grand and majestic, John honestly could not care less what he would wear to the ceremony; not when he had more important matters to discuss. He figured he would look pretty much as he always did: short hair, square jaw, and button nose. His consultant and most trusted advisor was on his right, slowly going over every tiny detail and complication that could present itself once his will was implemented. The young prince was aware that the government agent was not in the least opposed to the idea, but that he dreaded the logistics it would take to carry it out, in Auradon it wasn't everyday that someone dared to question the rules in any way, much less challenge them; but John felt that change was not only convenient, but necessary.

His parents —the still official King and Queen— arrived to his much too opulent to his tastes chambers, cheerful and content, commenting on his impending acceptance of responsibility. His mother, once she saw him in his coronation suit, grinned and cooed excitedly as his father looked on proud and determined. They were a perfect pair, his progenitors, and by perfect he meant _perfect,_ as in encompassing every good and ideal quality a couple of human —or magical— beings could have. John would be relentlessly lying if he were to say that wasn't the reason why he sometimes dreaded the whole ruling business. He enjoyed it in most days, but others he found himself wishing he could do as his sister had and get out from ascending to the throne on account of being a woman and marrying a prince of another kingdom, even if she was the first-born. For John that gender distinction was terribly unfair.

"How can it possibly be that you will be crowned King next moon, you're still such a young lad." The man exclaimed while gesturing to him with a big, strong hand and an even bigger grin on his face. His mother, looking poised and elegant hanging by his arm replied, "He's already eighteen, dear." And turned to look at him in a very conspiring manner.

John softly smiled too, but one look at his loyal advisor —who was also very young himself, only five cycles older than him— reminded him of what he had decided to do that day. "Hey, dad?" He asked, only to be blatantly ignored by his father still rambling on about how he was still way too young to be this grown-up and how he had never appeared to have made a good decision before the age of forty-four. Fact which his mother did not take too kindly.

"You decided to marry me at twenty eight." She said, crossing her thin arms and sending a disapproving look towards him, stopping for a moment from caressing the piece of fabric she had been examining earlier.

"Well, Harriet, it was either you or the magical teapot." Was his playful remark, which did manage to get an honest chuckle out of both John and his mum. King Ben and Queen Harriet had ruled the lands wisely and gracefully, after all, their own trials and adventures when they were younger were the perfect example of rising up to your full potential no matter the obstacles or mistakes along the way. It hadn't always been easy, nor optimal —specially with his father's previous …condition— but relying on each other and bravely following their heart's calling, they had managed to make it work in the best of ways and the blonde could not be happier, nor more grateful, to have had them as his guidance and support since he was born.

Sensing the young prince's hesitation to interrupt such a pure and fragile moment with something that would certainly make the evening turn southward, the counselor stepped forward and announced himself that the new king had chosen his first proclamation, ceding the word to his majesty to relay the announcement unto the pair.

Both of them seemed delighted, and even if John sent a very indebted expression towards his clever assistant, he took a brief second to gather any courage he could find in him to put into words what he had been thinking for more than the past six moon cycles. In the end, it was surprisingly easy to find it, there was not a single trace of doubt in his mind that he was doing the right thing.

"I have decided that, effective immediately, the children on the colloquially known as _'The Isle of the Lost'_ will be given a chance to live here in Auradon." John said in the most sure and confident voice he had ever portrayed, only to watch as his mother let go of the cloth in her hands and very nearly toppled over in astonishment.

* * *

Author's note: Disclaimer: This work is loosely based on a plot line of the movie Disney's Descendants. If you haven't seen it, or don't like it, please know that you can read it and understand everything. None of the actual characters of Descendants appear.

For those of you who have seen it, you know where this is going. Also, there are a few nods to the original hidden not very subtly in the narration.

Hope you all like it.


	2. Chapter 1: Commonplace Larceny

**Chapter 1: Commonplace Larceny**

 _For larceny one must unlawfully make away  
with personal property without any sort of permission  
or legal right, changing the objects out from their proper place and keeping them for yourself with no intention  
to return it whatsoever._

After the shock had been worn away, both of John's parents seemed to sprang into action at once. Arguing and talking over each other to try and make their son see some sense. John tolerated the rant for a few seconds, but in the end he had to make his cause known, there would never be changing his mind away from this. Nothing had ever felt as right and natural.

Silencing them with the gesture of a hand and a helpful clear of the throat coming from somewhere to his right, the young prince took a step down from the tailor platform and approached his parents. "Every morning that I wake up and look at that lonely island across the sea, I think about it." He said, suddenly realising exactly how much time it had been since the idea had first been born inside his brain. "It's as if they had been abandoned." He explained, and got to look as an odd mixture of emotions passed through his parent's expressions. Somewhere between horrified and chagrined.

"The children of our sworn enemies?" King Ben questioned. His hands and eyes were starting to get that terrifying, yet powerful appearance they always got when his ire was awakened. "The same that killed, and cheated, and quite simply destroyed so many lives, and you want them living among us?"

"Your Majesty, if I may?" Asked his polite advisor before the young man could respond to his father's poorly disguised accusations. John nodded his permission, not quite knowing if the request had been directed at him or not. "We would start out with a few of them," He said, adopting his usual competent and aloof persona that made him so valuable in the Royal Council. "A small group of three of the most desperate cases, and once the test trial has succeeded and they have been adapted we would continue to bring in new and bigger groups." His efficiency and straightforwardness always did manage to calm the John's nerves or apprehensions, he always felt more at ease when he knew there was some action to be taken. Inaction was his true enemy.

"The ones that we deem to need our help the most," The blue-eyed, barely out of his teen cycles, concluded. A determined expression written all across his features, the clear stubborn mirror image of the more adult version in front of him.

"You can't." Said the oldest, but John was not giving up, no matter how much this was outside of the norm. "Dad, I've already chosen them." He interrupted, showing his word in this was final. Stretching out to his full height to make up for his position of total lack of authority when it came to his father.

"Oh, have you?" The King leaned back, as if to distance himself from the situation. However, the level-headed woman that was his mother —the Queen— stopped him before he could let his temper run rampant. "Dear," She said, in that special sweet yet stern tone mothers usually have. "I gave you a second chance," She reminded him, this made the King pause, clearly the whole ' _cursed into a beast until he learned how to love_ ' subject was a sore one with his parents, one that they only brought up in extremely last-resort situations. After the waters had gone back to normal, Queen Harriet queried his son on the identity of the young children's progenitors.

John smiled gratefully, and let his shoulders fall back into a relaxed state before continuing, "Graham Lestrade," He had expected the anxious reaction the choice was going to bring forth, yet that didn't make it any easier to watch. "The Adler Queen," He added and here he paused, knowing the next was going to be the heavy blow. Sighing, he raised his head and stood 'confidently' in the middle of the room. "And Violet Holmes," He finally delivered. "Her only accounted for son, that is." He added as an afterthought.

"Holmes?" His father's ire had returned, although now it was very much justified. "She was the most vile and cunning of all the villains." He insisted; and it was true, so very true that everyone else would also think him insane at first exposure, but turning to the window and watching the swirling of the magic trying to penetrate the dome and never quite being able to manage it, hardened his resolve.

"I know, dad. Just hear me out." He tried, but was at once interrupted by the King. "I wont hear of it, those wretched creatures are guilty of unspeakable crimes and the danger of letting them free to roam here is the exact reason why we banished them there in the first place!"

"But the children are innocent," John reminded him, still not used to standing up to his parents in that manner. The King and Queen had always been very nurturing and understanding along his upbringing, and yet this had always been the one topic in which they could never seem to agree. "Don't you think they do deserve an opportunity for a better life?" He asked. "One that is not weaved in violence?" By then, the slightly-scared tailor and the sensible advisor had left, and allowed the family to discuss and resolve the situation in the privacy the royal family warranted. Seeing as they were alone, the young blue-eyed boy tried again, this time much more uncertain. "Dad?"

King Ben took a moment to consider it, and he apparently could not deny the veracity of that fact, however much he disliked the idea. Grimacing but with a defeated posture he assented. "I suppose the children are innocent." He declared, and it was as much as a concession as he had ever heard one. Having come to a reluctant agreement, the pair of monarchs straightened their backs and made to leave the room, but not before his mother took a step to fix up her son's suit and smile proudly at him for the way he had handled the situation. "Well done, no matter the outcome." She said, then grabbed his father by the arm with a _'shall we?_ ' and the both of them disappeared into the corridor; leaving the king-to-be alone with his musings once more.

After a few seconds to process the scene that had just developed and the rush of responsibility that had invaded him, he took again to looking out the window; this time the sight did not seemed quite as sad as it did that morning.

-o-o-o-

"Take cover!" Came the hoarse cry of a voice to his left. The exclamation sounded loud and true since it was the only sound that could be noticed for the silent stretch of a second, then everything seemed to unravel in the best of ways. The blast of light and sound originated at the explosion made his blood run faster and the sensation was nothing short of ecstatic. A feeling only rivaled by his opium of choice when he could acquire it —it was not exactly easy to find, they didn't really _send_ it from the shore— but this artificially induced detonation would have to do for now.

The young man running at his side almost collapsed to the ground, but he was not going to stop for him, he was not there to attend to the unfortunate; specially not when he was finally having some much desired _fun_. He continued racing through the ground, but his direction was slightly different than everybody else's, and by slightly I mean 'complete opposite'; he was running _towards_ the flare, ready to make away with the 'protected' goods from inside the vault they had just violently broken open. Completely jumping over the discarded crates covered in spray paint placed on the floor. A mob of imbecilic civilians was advancing away in chaos, disappearing into the various dark alleys and downtrodden sheds that occupied the vicinity of the scene. It was as if they didn't do something like this every week, he figured they should at least be used to it by now, but he had learnt very early in life that it is completely hopeless to try and expect an actual coherent thought from almost everyone around him.

He pushed his way through the crowd and swiftly arrived to pick up the stolen reward his clever scheme had reaped. Smirking and casually putting some of it in the inside pocket of his dark and sharp coat, hiding them away just before his two associates arrived; figuring it was his undeniable right as sole designer of this machination, if it weren't for him, they wouldn't even have gotten as far as their front door steps.

Soon enough, a figure was seen approaching him. A slim and determined young woman, her almond emerald eyes twinkling and her plush lips smirked and snarled in equal amounts once she spotted him."You are not having all the fun without us again," She started, to which the other only rolled his eyes playfully and ran a pale hand through his slightly purplish curls. "Are you, Sherlock?" She asked, the warning edge on her voice was poorly disguised by her friskiness. He deduced it was completely by design in place of chance, he knew she was aware of him often times taking an extra helping of anything they managed to steal.

"I'm afraid I don't know what could you possibly be taking about." He answered with an innocent face, just as the other person in question was arriving, panting from the exertion yet exporting a clearly satisfied grin.

"Nice!" The third member of their _'gang'_ —although the youngest would never be caught calling it as such— stopped in front of them and swiftly began to load coins and jewels into his carrying bag. Tall, a bit on the bulky side, with straight nose and strong jaw. Sherlock snickered and leaned back on the brick wall next to the vault they were ransacking, waiting for the other boy of their group to finish brutally taking his share, managing to knock half of it over in his haste.

"You know it's not going anywhere, right?" The other asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm; he took out a cigaret and lighted it up with the flaming wood of the vault's frame at his side. "It's not like any of this lot is going to try and stop us anymore." He chuckled as he admired the surrounding city still in uproar about the latest crime committed.

"Well, no." Lestrade admitted, but shrugged and continued his frantic movement, he supposed his father's —the former great foreign schemer of The Sand Kingdom— antique shop was not going to stock itself. After a moment, the girl, Irene, pushed him aside with surprising force and began piling her share and storing it in her overly large purse, equally as eager but much more graceful. Sherlock knew it was completely impractical for him to be running around in rebellion all over The Isle without someone to do most of the dreadful tasks —no matter how brilliant he was— yet sometimes he wondered about the reason why he kept them around. Sure, Lestrade was strong and though, always up for _'roughing up'_ some fool who dared annoy them, and Irene was highly smart, not to mention a very good manipulator and a master in seduction; but _he_ , he was something else.

He was not only the most intelligent person on the island —excepting, of course, a particular someone, but we'll get there— people around him had found out that he was only able to be described with one seven-letter word. This boy was _trouble._ Of the best sort, obviously, the kind that sent even the other villains living on the city shrinking back from his ever-knowing eyes and sent himself on a spiral of endless enjoyment.

"All yours," The Woman said to him, drawing back and crossing her arms at him in contemplation. He side-eyed her and bent over to retrieve the rest of the winning's of the day, while Lestrade kicked what remained of his make-shift bomb aside.

"I'll never understand how you do these things." Lestrade commented. It wasn't as if it were the first time one of his creations got them the best of 'bargains' in whatever they pleased, but his two associates always failed to recognise how easy it really was to mix some things together, let them blow and make it seem like magic.; —nonetheless of how real magic was another matter altogether— but since it was banned and impossible to conjure even for someone born with magical abilities in his veins like himself, then simple chemistry would have to suffice.

"Yes, well don't over-exert yourself trying. You'd fall over." He retorted, much to the cruel delight of Irene, to which the other crook just glared. Once they were finished, the three of them gathered their belongings and took to wandering the adjacent alleys, roaming through the smelly and most questionable part of the city as was their usual haunt. They had duties they were supposed to be carrying out, but neither of them particularly cared for authority. Sure, Auradon sent some brave recruits every moon-cycle to patrol The Isle and keep everything to the King's liking, but rules didn't really intimidate him. If anything, that stupid poster of King Ben hung around the trodden town advising you to ' _do good'_ and warning you of his ever-extending authority just made him anxious to cause more chaos in favour of inconveniencing them, at the least. Sure, he could do much better than that, but then again, it was only ten in the morning, and his day never properly started until he had ordered a bitter and tangy black coffee from one the lower-class criminal's brew and walked out without paying. Plus, he was already exhausted from that morning's activities, ending two relationships and exposing someone's darkest, most embarrassing secrets —aside from the heist— could be quite draining.

The street was crowded, everyone going about their business, not paying any mind to anyone but themselves. That was normal there, specially on busy days; except for the occasional arson and gang activity. Sherlock trailed his hands over the rusted wall and ripped an Auradon poster off and balled it with a menacing grin over his face; satisfied, he tossed his dying cigaret to a nearby bin, buttoned up his long, black, sharp-edged coat and continued his way. The two people shadowing him kept walking too, participating in the trail of light-hearted vandalism he left behind, almost bypassing a figure that snatched Sherlock's vision; a girl, two cycles his senior, and her intense stare full of hatred. It was always the same, every day since they had been kids; even if the genius was aware of what the reason was, theirs being a relationship full of animosity since he could remember, it never failed to make him look at her as he passed. There was something about her which he couldn't quite place.

His routine musing was abruptly interrupted once he encountered the last person he really desired to see. Sherlock halted and pursed his lips in disgust and frustration, and he had been having such a productive day. "What do you want, Magnussen?" He said spitefully, not having an ounce of patience for this second-class shark. Sure, he was a brilliant blackmailer, and technically his 'superior' in his personal chain of command, yet that did not mean he had to deal with his antics.

"The same thing as always, little Sherlock." He started condescendingly, always treating him like a helpless child. Standing there, in the middle of the street with his hands in his pockets and his dead eyes in full display. "But that can wait." He commented casually, as if that was ever going to work with him. Slowly some of the people in the scene were starting to draw back.

"Give me one good reason not to unleash on you the deadly disease in my lab next time you come over to report your duties about the mafia." Sherlock casually threatened, very intent on carrying it out if needs must, he wasn't raised on the many ways to be destructive and vicious for nothing. However, Magnussen did not seem to find it particularly frightening. Perhaps it was the wrongful impression most middle-aged men had on the young and thriving, people like him always tended to underestimate the genius. But he was strategic and cunning, and if they wanted a fight they would most likely end up defeated; he had had the best teacher.

The man approached until he was standing right in front of the teen, and smiled. "What would Jim say," He began, as he reached out a frail finger and ran it softly against his cheek. "If I told him you were behaving like this towards his second in command?" The shark asked, adding his whole palm to the breach of personal space.

Sherlock shook off the digits and took a step back in repulsion. "He'll tell you to unhand me," He concluded. "He has no time for your tedious delusions." The jab was obvious and frankly not unprecedented, but he did feel a sick sense of satisfaction about the fact that Moriarty was in his side about this matter, and how unable to do anything it left his opponent. Both of his companions closed in at his sides in defiance, and that was exactly when he remembered why he tolerated them most of the time. The were useful allies.

"Very well," The man relented, not seemingly fazed at the continued rejection. He adjusted his glasses and took a moment to scratch his blonde beard. "Moriarty requires your presence at the castle immediately." He declared, to which the younger man could only frown in confusion, that usually meant he was going to have to spend the afternoon doing some sort of special errand, well it would certainly occupy his intellect for an hour or two. "He said to bring your gang of punks."

That brought Sherlock a sense of curiosity, it was very rare when Jim displayed anything but normal disregard to Irene and Lestrade, just as he did with anyone else in the entire world. That definitely warranted some exploration. The boy paused, just because he knew Magnussen despised waiting around when he was desperate to go hide away in his cave and lick his wounds and he so loved to annoy him. Taking all the time in the world and softly smiling, he relented. "Alright." He finally said.

He and his group had already turned their backs to walk away and take the longer way to the abandoned castle at the edge of the forest, when the man's voice was heard again. "Sherlock." He called, which made said teen turn around only to see him still standing there as an unmoving rod. "Yes?" He said when no further question came forward. Magnussen roamed his gaze all over his frame lewdly only to return to his face and smiled wickedly. "That's enough, you can retire."

The man with the violet-coloured hair rolled his eyes in exasperation and gestured the others to keep going, he couldn't wait to get away from the scene and back home.

-o-o-o-

Said castle was quite a sad excuse of what it used to be. Where once it was all high ceilings, sharp edges and grim-looking furniture, —decoration so tasteful yet so very disturbing that would push anyone to desire leaving right away; elegant and horrifying: his mother's signature— now sometimes it felt as if it only remained standing by pure will. Of course, there were no actual means of maintaining a fortress of such proportions living in the congregation of the various states of poor slums that conformed the island; and that which was one grand and very impressive, came to be merely a second-hand fortress in a villain's last attempt at grabbing any power left.

For Sherlock, it was also known as his home.

He and the two of his other trouble-makers acquaintances made their way through the various empty rooms of the place. Past several torture chambers —which were now resolutely out of use, except for the resident's experiments— and all other rooms with weapons and coffins; just another of the stereotypical fairytale haunted castle. It may have worked on the past to frighten any old fool who could wander off and end up there by chance, and it could have been useful to maintain an air of rightful menace towards dubious or questioning subjects. Now, it was terribly old-fashioned and there were times were the young man hated the caricature of it all. From the half-life they were all living trapped in that dump, right up to the sleek figure standing at the middle of his sitting room.

"Moriarty." He greeted, inquisitive emotion betraying in his voice, even if he knew better than caving in to his fascination with life in front of him. He threw his day's winnings on the table and shook off the heavy coat from his shoulders as the others just waited around, confused beyond their minds on the reason why Queen Adler and the Great Schemer's —their respective parents— presence was required, everybody knew that the one currently on charge of the castle, and of the falling evil empire, was not very fond of visitors.

Sherlock stopped to look around, shifting his silver-coloured gaze to uncover any clues. Moriarty was not even moving a muscle, with shorter frame and slicked black hair, just staring at him as if he were trying to figure something out. "Again with the petty burglary, Sherlock?" He finally said, something alike disappointment painting his tone. "Aren't you bored of that already?" He queried, his deep brown eyes boring into the form of his younger apprentice, even if he was several cycles older than him, his deep brown eyes never seemed to change form the empty state they always occupied. Often times the genius found himself wondering what could there be if he prodded at the surface with the most tentative of touches. What darkness could he unravel just by attempting to look past Moriarty's collected facade.

"It was from the Wiggings family." Sherlock offered, smiling charmingly at the only person to whom he had somewhat of a responsibility to answer. Knowing the extent in which the criminal mastermind hated those wretched little underlings that dared to try and question his claim of power when the time came to find a suitable successor.

James smirked, clearly pleased in a much higher level than unsatisfied. "Well, that certainly makes the effort marginally better." Sherlock chuckled then, content with feeling that at least not everything he did will always fall on the short side in the eyes of the greatest villain ever known —after his mother, of course.

The older man slowly approached the table and inspected his acquisitions; however, after a few moments, he swept everything off the table dismissively, sat down on a crooked armchair and propped his feet on the table. "You could've just said you didn't want them." The teen commented, and the other scoffed at Sherlock's expression of disbelief, smiling in that sleazy way that only he knew how to pull off.

"It's the deeds, Sherlock." He started in that soothing lilting voice, to which the younger man and the other teens rolled their eyes. "That make the difference between villain wannabes like the Wiggings, and true masterminds like your mother." Sherlock hated this part, the bit where Moriarty would shamelessly use his dead parent to try and teach him a lesson, it didn't matter that James was the closest thing resembling a family that he had, he had heard those stories a million times before. "When she was your age, she was already cursing entire kingdoms."

"Remind me again how that ended for her?" Sherlock asked ironically, with a smile forming and a mischievous glint in his eyes as Jim turned to glare at him.

"I'm just attempting to not let you become like all these other dull creatures on the island." The brunette gestured his four guests in example, action which only earned sounds and looks of outrage. No one dared to do anything about it, though. The young menace that was Sherlock wonder briefly what would it be like to one day be as intimidating as to silencing anyone he would ever encounter with his sole presence. Perturbing the kids his age —and a few older ones— was one thing, but complete dominance over anyone was another matter all together. One Moriarty would not be so quick to dismiss.

This wandering of thought was cut short by someone else uttering a statement. "There are news," Queen Adler, who up until then had been silent as a tomb, commented much to the dismay of the other guests. Twirling her long dark blue hair in a sensuous manner, Jim was not particularly pleased that he had been robbed of a big reveal, but let it slide in order to scrutinise his apprentice's expression. "You three have been chosen to go to a different school this cycle." She explained. Then, disguised as a casual afterthought, but in reality was just a pause for the dramatics, promptly added. "In Auradon."

"What!?" The trio of teens exclaimed in unison. Incredulity painted across their expressions; one of them —Greg— even took a step back in rejection. Sherlock's fists curled up inwards, knowing exactly where this business was headed. "No." He said in finality, refusing to play to the other's machinations. "I'm not going to some tedious boarding school filled to the brim with annoying morons and prissy pink princesses."

At his demand, his female companion raised a perfectly styled eyebrow in contemplation and smiled wickedly. "I could see the appeal in that." She commented, and the younger boy simply turned his head to glare at her in warning to stay out of the outrageous matter. "Shut up, Irene." He said.

"Well, forget it." Lestrade chipped in, "I don't do _'uniforms'._ " The three of them glanced at each other in conspiracy, weary of deciding in going or staying together. Sherlock could easily read determination in them as if floating words were coming out of their bodies, escaping for everyone else to see —except only he seemed to be able to read such language, he always wondered if that was some sort of left-over magical ability passed down from his mother or if every other person he had ever met was just a moron; probably the latter— even if some of the other's tells suggested a very subtle excitement to see what was beyond the magical border, the curly-haired man knew they would not act on it. However, the young villain wanted no part on it; here, on the island laid what was real, any kingdom made of fantasies was just not tempting enough for him to bother, not after what had happened before.

"So, it's settled." He said, turning to watch his mentor in amusement. "Better luck the next time." A small wicked smirk appearing all over his face. No matter how much trouble it could mean to him, he had always found deep enjoyment in refusing anyone else's wishes; even if the consequences of rebuffing Moriarty were often times best avoided.

"Ugh, Sherlock," Moriarty said in disgust, as if the sole concept of him harboring such an ordinary thought were the most embarrassing of happenstances. Standing up from his seat and slowly taking a place right in front of him. "As always, you're thinking small." He commented, smiling and tilting his head in faux innocence as were the criminal's trademark. He would find it cheesy if it weren't so very effective at being terrifying.

Sherlock concentrated then, his brain rapidly firing every possible outcome and reason why Jim would want him to go there, and the only verdict was; "The wand." He concluded.

"Wand?" Asked Lestrade, as the purple-haired rolled his eyes and sighed. Looking around the room to the other supposedly smart criminals with vacant looks on their faces. No wonder Moriarty —and his mother— had always been exasperated with them.

"Yes, Hudson's magic wand." Sherlock explained to his associates, his silvery, almost colourful eyes challenging them to at least try and think for a moment. "You want me to retrieve it." He addressed this to his evil mentor in affirmation.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Moriarty asked in delight, rounding up the teen in appreciation. "Not a lost cause after all." He amused and mockingly mumbled under his breath. "With the wand and Violet's scepter I'll be able to bend both good and evil to my will." James said, fixing his suit and stuffing his hands on the inside of its pockets; there was something terribly ordinary about Moriarty that always fooled people who didn't know him, it was a very efficient and frankly a bit disturbing strategy, to hide one's face so effortlessly in order for people never to suspect you. Of course, since he had seized power of the island after his mother died he had been easier to recognize. Sherlock remembered the day James Moriarty rose to power as if it were the day prior. Maybe some details of the actual uprising against the villains and the first days of The War of Light were blurred, a lot of questions had never been answered, but there were some aspects about which he would never be able to forget. Perhaps a new 'case' wouldn't be the worst thing.

"What's in it for me?" He asked, question which made his acquaintances perk up and look interested. Everybody knew they will be following him along if he were to accept, and the promise of a reward was practically the only way you could entice a villain to do anything.

"Do you enjoy watching innocent people suffer?" Moriarty responded with rhetoric. Smiling that famous Cheshire Cat grin that could make weaker men cower in terror.

The teen scoffed and smiled slyly, "Doesn't everyone else?" He asked, and casually sat down sideways on Jim's previous seat. "How is that any different from terrorising people here?" Sherlock queried, although he already knew the absolute answer.

Moriarty loomed over the boy with the purple curls and suddenly his eyes flashed bright green: A strong power seized Sherlock and his kaleidoscope eyes settled to mirror the lime colour of his attacker. A soft voice swiftly floated into his head, delicate but still very menacing, it was the remnants of the dragon's witchcraft —which James had taken for his own right before she passed away— it was the only sort of magic that worked on the island, and only to a certain degree.

In the end, there was nothing he could do but give up, even if the other couldn't really control his actions with it, it was a very effective tactic to make him lose his resolve a bit, to stop him from struggling too much. Great manipulation skills and mind control were naught compare to that, and having the criminal inside his head always made him even more dizzy. Needless to say, the boy hated every second each time his mentor chose to do that and would do almost anything to make it stop. "Fine, we'll do it." He relented.

"I win!" Moriarty squealed in delight, completely out of character of what anyone would normally expect from the most feared criminal on the land, but Jim had always enjoyed leaving people wrong-footed.

"Irene, come here." Her mother said, while she carefully touched up her blood red lipstick. "You just find yourself a handsome prince with a very big castle." She ordered the second her daughter sat down. Said teen looked highly loathing and revolted. Sherlock could not really understand how could her mother be so dense as to not see what was right in front of her, specially after she is widely known for being clever. He figured she just didn't care enough.

"And lots of mirrors." Irene answered, though whether her tone was ironic or sincere tSherlock could not discern. At his right Lestrade was not doing much better with his own father. He wondered —not for the first time— whether he was lucky or unfortunate for only having a highly unstable and clearly psychopathic maniac as a parent figure.

"Greg is not going anywhere." The Great Schemer declared, smiling at Queen Adler and winking. She rolled her eyes as his child was mirroring the exact same expression, except his was ridden with disgust on the surface. "He needs to stock the shelves in my store." He explained.

Lestrade sighed but still brought forward all that he had stolen through the morning, giving it up for inspection by his greedy progenitor; Sherlock just slouched more in his seat and anxiously waited for them to be over with their tedious affairs so he could retire to his room and finish his experiment in the rate of deathly poisons.

Moriarty scrunched up his face in repugnance to their small minded activities, "What is wrong with all of you?" He asked. "People used to scream at the mere mention of our names, and here you are acting… ordinary." Jim finished, visibly on the brink of causing another chaos like last week. "For thirteen sun-cycles we've been robbed of our revenge from those stupid, little peasants!" His voice fluctuating in tones and intensity, conveying every frustration he had on the matter. "Wouldn't you just like to see them all burn?" Jim asked. Somehow delighted, as if already tasting the fun and misery he would inflict.

Irene's mother then got out a small piece of glass —or what remained of her magic mirror more like it— from her purse and gave it to her daughter; who accepted it in wonder. A mirror that let you know anything you could ever want and more; even if that tiny device would never work on The Isle, it would in Auradon, and that was just

conveniently wicked.

"Sherlock," Moriarty motioned him forward, extending to him a book which he had tried to steal and take a peak inside for sun-cycles, ever since he was a little child learning mischief. "All my life I've been looking for this opportunity, and you _will_ help me achieve it." The Book of Spells felt rough in his hands, but so much heavier than he thought it would, it was in so many ways intriguing. The plum coloured leather was sturdy, and the golden dragon engraved on its front so foreign, yet so familiar that he found his finger tracing the detailed silhouette, "This is exactly why I took you in all those cycles ago." Jim said as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Consider all you have been doing up until now 'practice'. Now, it's your turn to experience how thrilling it is to be a villain in the real world out there." Jim smiled and looked straight at Sherlock. "By doing exactly what I tell you." He concluded.


	3. Chapter 2: The Original Invasion

**Chapter 2: The Original Invasion**

 _Invasion is a very easy and practical thing when you have the mind to plan it and the means to achieve it. One must only aggressively enter territory controlled by any such entity with the intention of conquering and alter the established order of things. Soon enough the land, among with its resources, will be yours._

He was definitely going to need a bigger suitcase. Sherlock had spent the prior four hours attempting to store all his chemistry equipment into three bags. However, his beakers refused to fit anywhere he tried to put them. He supposed it was futile anyway, it wasn't as if he would be able to get much time to spend on science once in Auradon, he recalled Moriarty warning him off from taking too long. Of course, impatience was a feeling to which he could relate whole-heartedly, and retrieving one single wand from the bunch of snobby idiots would be as simple a task as stealing food from an infant. Still, the genius wanted to be prepared for any downtime they could have in that stuffy place, what he was concocting promised to be some heavy fun and he just couldn't wait to put it in action. Perhaps if he was able to finish it before they left the kingdom he could set it off and watch all those boring little princes and princesses run amok for a few hours, make an afternoon of it. After forgoing a few flasks as a lost case he decidedly shut off his suitcase. If anything, this at least would be an opportunity to do something really entertaining.

He turned to the window of his room, a sharp-edged frame lining the picture. A castle —the exact opposite of where he resided— could be seen in the distance, past the blurry swirl of the dome. Standing on a hill, proud and bright and oh, so perfect. The day he had arrived back at this fortress —after having roamed the streets for a few weeks— he ran up to here, the highest point of the tower and watched in awe how distinct the view was with something partially blocking it, even the sun had looked different somehow, and now he couldn't quite remember how it had once been. He had been just three sun-cycles old when they had attacked his mother's castle and what little he could reminisce, he'd rather not. If Moriarty hadn't taken him in as his pupil in all things evil, he failed to determine where that would have left him. Now, looking at the autumn sky and all the frankly fascinatingly contrasting attributes between the universe of The Isle and the unknown one from afar, with Jim's words playfully whirling inside his brain, he smirked. Whatever may come once the criminal seized the wand and the power, it was sure to bring forth some sort of change, and he suddenly felt impatient for it, dusting off his overcoat on his frame. ' _The future of all that is good and proper rests on your shoulders.'_ James had said. _'So, do your worst.'_ And oh, was he really planning on it.

* * *

Once the fancy car that was supposed to pick them up and carry them into what could possibly be Sherlock's worst nightmare —all that happy, cheery people, and all that _sun_ — had arrived, the three of the young criminals ran outside, completely ready to get away from their simultaneously overbearing and uncaring parents or more than slightly insane guardians. They threw their bags inside the trunk of what could only be described as a black limousine, and Sherlock let himself fall on the backseat, Moriarty's sick smile meeting him from the balcony from where he was observing his plan unfold, the teen held the stare for a few moments, but as soon as he saw the usually deep brown eyes flash green he shifted his gaze, focusing instead on watching Lestrade as he surreptitiously dropped his hat over an expensive-looking car ornament, shook his black-gray hair and then picked it back up with the trinket still under it. Sherlock smirked slightly and settled on the seat next to Irene. It would probably be a long trip to _'happy land'._

"Ugh," She complained, twirling her perfectly-styled hair in annoyance, twisting the black and blue locks out of her face. "My mum needs to learn how to chill." She said, as the car started moving and the street where they had grown up started becoming smaller. "I swear that woman will give me stress lines before I am thirty." This comment was in no way ingenious or unprecedented, still it drew a laugh from Lestrade sitting across from them.

Sherlock opted to watch outside the window at the new revelations that were unfolding before his eyes, and arrange all the steps of the strategy in peace. However, that was clearly not to be since his car-mates where making quite a racket over some colorful-looking food they had been granted as snacks for the ride called _'sweets'._

"Well, this is not so bad." Greg said, as he munched on something brown and mushy, it made Sherlock scrunch up his nose in disgust. "Specially whatever this is," He commented, and managed to stuff three more of them in his mouth right after talking. "Is this what all the food tastes like outside of The Isle?"

Irene, although more graceful, was also nibbling on a blue transparent ball with equal enthusiasm; it amazed the genius how easily distracted they could become when there were far more important things than some strange _'ingestibles'_. "Sherlock, try this-" She offered, but got a completely different expression once he turned around to acknowledge her. "You look a bit washed out."

The sulking teen rolled his eyes and turned away again. "Shut up," He commanded in aversion. "I'm _plotting._ " He explained. Trying to bring forth the reminder of their mission and the real reason why they had to go in the first place.

Apparently, it didn't manage to make the trick, or maybe The Woman was just too used to his antics to take him seriously anymore. "Well, it's not very attractive." She dismissed him, returning to her blue- _something_ and smiling at Lestrade in conspiracy.

Sherlock watched as they were approaching the edge of the island, and the docks were still loaded with ships with no means of sailing them, not across the dome. If he were being completely honest with himself —and _himself_ was the only person to whom he always tried to tell the truth— he would admit that a change of scenery would not be the worst thing, even if only briefly. For as long as he remembered he had been waiting for a chance to really put on practice every wretched little thing he had learned and planned somewhere outside the island. After this, he was sure he would never have to stare at King Ben's face in that stupid promotional scattered around the town, his disapproving and authoritarian expression that always managed to leave him feeling out of breath in rage will forever be wiped away from his mind, and that was a relief Sherlock could not even begin to imagine the experience of achieving. He was restless to get it all going, to finally steal that freedom.

The genius just stared out the glass, the world around him blurring from existence, when he noticed something; their velocity was heightening and the course they were following was approaching an abrupt end, no more than half a tall bridge with the end missing where the bottom of the barrier stood. The car kept speeding up with no intention of relenting and the edge where the road suddenly became thin air drew nearer. A sense of distrust invaded the mischievous boy, "Something's not right." He said, as he saw the docks way behind the car, and before them only air and miles to fall into the ocean. "This is a trap, we're going to fall." He exclaimed. The other two passengers dropped their snacks to look at him in bewilderment, just before Lestrade attempted to force-open the door and jump into a possible death to avoid a certain one; but not the door, nor the window would budge.

"Hey!" Irene yelled at the driver, who was calm and steady as an unmoving mountain. Silent, with her eyes on the road and completely ignoring the youths on the back of the vehicle. Sherlock spotted a series of controls on one of the door's panels and proceeded to push each and any button in the hopes it would make something _stop._

Then, just as they were sure they were about to plummet to their deaths, the barrier opened up and the rest of the road became visible as if were conjured up magically —which it very well could have— and the car continued on its course without a halt.

"What the fuck just happened?" Lestrade asked, scratching the back of his neck in confusion. Even if they had grown up in tales of magic and spells, actually watching it happen was another thing altogether. All of them only having experienced it way too young to remember it properly. Sherlock's focus came back to his hands still propped on the controls, and his left index finger pushing the biggest and most showy button of them all. He retreated from the panel and turned around to address the driver. "Did this button just opened up the magic barrier?" He asked, motioning to the button in question and somewhat excited to be witnessing his first real and memorable encounter with magical physics.

"No," She responded stoically. "This one opens the magic barrier." She said, her hand picking up a small plastic golden controller with an even more obvious button at the center. "That one opens my garage," She commented, and then she finally turned her face to look at them as she handed another switch. "And this button…" She pressed it and the dark panel between their places and the driver's started going up until all they could see of the front seat was their own reflexion.

"Oh, nasty," Sherlock commented with a smirk. Reclining back into his place and laughing in appreciation. "I like her." Next to him, the others were also reclaiming their spaces and Irene turned to gaze mischievously at him. "Oh darling, you don't know where to look." She said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes once more at her. A long ride indeed.

* * *

The cheers could be heard throughout the castle. The school's marching band was playing some rendition of a grandiose victory song that John felt he should know but didn't really remember. The welcome committee was already gathered in front of the building, awaiting to see the black vehicle approach in the distance. In all honesty, John felt slightly nervous about the whole thing, but still very much excited, so much was depending on this meeting going well, and he really felt he was on the brink on something truly transcendent. If only he could get the cufflinks in his blue and golden suit —Auradon's colours— to cooperate.

"It's almost time, Your Majesty." His advisor said as he appeared through the door and took a polite yet dignified stance. The soon to be king turned away from the window and made his way out of the room as the car could already begin to be seen. Just when he was about to leave the corridor he saw his consultant hang back and look through said window pane with an unreadable expression. John smiled, pleased to see he was not the only one in the realm looking forward to this. His parents may have relented, and the kingdom's people had no other choice but to agree to his proclamation —even if John hated to do something without the voting he had always favoured as the proper way of ruling— but not even Lady Hudson was completely on board with this idea; while he could understand the dread they could feel about the insane amount of work they would be doing, without even mentioning the possible catastrophic outcomes; he felt as if this task were calling him, and he was helpless to resist. The only one that had never seem intimidated by the notion was his trusted advisor; he had genuinely looked surprised and delighted to participate in such an innovative proposal; and he really appreciated the support. He had met Mike when he was still a kid and since then, he had proved to be a very positive aspect on his life; specially since he seemed to have an unnatural knack for political parliament.

John rushed to the entrance as he saw the car park right in the huge road leading to the castle; the sun shinning upon his shoulders made nothing to sway him from his objective. Not even his girlfriend trailing behind him got as much as a spare thought as everything on which he could focus was what was standing before him. Three kids, around his age, looking so terribly out of place in their dark clothing, compared to the soft and subdued colours of what made the Auradon canvas. The very look of them did nothing but excite the young prince, since in all his life he had never encountered someone quite as _new_ as they already were.

One of them, the one who appeared to be the oldest, was standing to the far right side, trying to hide something inside his backpack and ruffling his short hair in faux nonchalance. The other two seemed to be taking different approaches to this and the blonde boy could only stop and marvel at the expressions they were portraying.

"Greg, you have an audience." The girl said, tugging in place her short navy dress and gracefully adjusting the bracelets on her wrists. Some of the students who had gathered to welcome the new additions to the halls of Auradon Prep seemed to be already appreciating the view the figure clad in dark blue cut. The red plump lips and dark green eyes. But for John, the most interesting turn up was the third member of the bunch: A tall, pale, lanky boy, with curls so dark that glowed purple under the sun, —as was the usual sign of pure magic in the veins—. However, that was not what made John curious about him; but the manner in which he carried himself, he was certainly different than the others. He was clearly the leader of the group, yet he seemed unaffected by the fact, wearing competence as sharply as the shirt he had on beneath the long coat under which he was bundled. The royal couldn't help but feel sympathy —and a small sense of worry— for standing under the hot and unforgiving heat inside a heavy leather coat. He just hoped their first day out of The Isle would not end with someone suffering from insolation.

Behind him, a couple of distinctive steps were heard approaching the scene quickly. Appearing as if out of thin air as was her wont since she had given up magic as the majority of the kingdom. "Leave it like you found it." She said, to which the three teens stopped and regarded her in varying amounts of amusement. "And by that, I mean _'leave it',_ young man." She said as Greg rolled his eyes and pulled out an incredible number of things —presumably stolen— from his bag and proceeded to throw them carelessly back in the car. _'Close enough.'_ John thought with a chuckle.

"Welcome to Auradon Prep." She said, her mature face friendly but also carrying a light air of stern authority. Looking at each of the new arrivals in a way that meant no funny business would be tolerated. "I'm the headmistress-" She commenced explaining, yet 'violet hair' seemed to have no patience to finish hearing what she had to say as he rudely interrupted her.

"Lady Hudson," He stated, staring with an expression of both satisfaction and curiosity. Roaming his silver-sharp gaze across her face as if assessing all her life choices, distinctly focusing on her hair. John would have thought it brilliant if it weren't a tiny bit terrifying.

The woman in question was momentarily taken aback by the recognition. Surprise apparent in her whole figure for a second, then her face broke out in a pleased smile. "Exactly." She asserted, and turned to share a look with Prince John in admittance. She seemed to be on board now, which only serve to exacerbate the blonde's enthusiasm to make the acquaintance of a boy who could change the mind of the stubborn enchantress so unexpectedly. "You've heard of me." Lady Hudson's delighted voice shone through as she commented.

Suddenly the kid, previously smirking, abruptly shifted his expression from complacent to indifference, so quickly it left the prince wondering whether the smugness had even happened. "Not really." He answered, much to the discontent of everyone present. Crossing his arms in a bored gesture as his eyes took a hooded state while he turned to glance at his entertained friends. "Just something about a raggedy princess, pumpkins turned into carriages," His words held a faint trace of disgust of which John failed to determine in their sincerity. "And a _wand._ "

The manner in which he said the word, full of innocent threat made John uncertain. However, the sparkling eyes behind the comment spoke of something different than just animosity. They were intelligent eyes, but also very much lively. The royal could sense some mischievousness within him —within the three of them, actually— but the intent did not seem to be to horrify, but to leave wrong-footed. His smile carrying a hint of unexplained delight, as if he was in on a secret you didn't know; and John was no fool, he knew the three of them would have secrets beyond measure.

"That old thing?" Asked Lady Hudson, batting her hand in dismission. Her expression matched the light brown hair giving her a maternal look to which John had latched since the first time he met her as a toddler. "Never mind about that, it was ages ago." Her smile lit up the whole gathering, yet the three strangers were frowning in confusion. The boy wearing biker gloves which they had identified as 'Greg' turned to the girl and they both minutely shrugged at each other, while the other boy tilted his head in appreciation, "I thought it would be… educational." He said, and this time the prince was certain: he was having them on. A snort came out of the blonde without intention, resulting in every other head in proximity turning and looking at him as if he had personally offended them. It was not exactly proper for a royal —specially one in the line of the throne— to lose composure at an official event. Yet, that did not seem to deter John. If anything, it made him anxious to laugh even louder. Mary, his girlfriend for the past three moon cycles, swatted him on the arm discretely to get him to stop. At the end, he managed once he noticed everyone else was waiting for him to introduce himself and proceed with polite reception.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you." He took a step forward and extended his hand in invitation. Shaking each hand in earnest; the others, however, didn't seem as enthusiastic at the convention. "I'm John." He said simply.

The girl with short blonde hair and owner of the current status of 'girlfriend' rolled her eyes in a mix between scolding and amused. She had a small nose and a petite figure, but that was in no way indicative of her attitude. Slightly annoyed at him for forgoing property again, she introduced: "Prince John of House Watson." Seeing as no one else would adhere to customs. "Soon to be crowned King."

"You had me at _'Prince'_." Answered the girl, as she took a step forward and regarded them both with a graceful bow. "My name is Irene, daughter of The Adler Queen. But if that's too much for you, you can call me 'The Woman'." The young girl commented suggestively. "Specially you." She said to Mary.

John coughed and grinned in light-heartedness. Pleasantly surprised by the new additions to their school and realm. Perhaps it was too early to tell, but this could be his best idea to date, those dreams he had had almost every night had clearly pointed him in the right direction. "This is Princess Mary of the Highlands." He explained.

"His girlfriend." Mary finished. Her face was amiable, but her smile was not entirely sincere. John knew the princess was not exactly pleased with the situation; not because she had anything against the kids, but she believed he was deluding himself into thinking they would ever be able to function in their society. The prince was set on proving her wrong.

"He can come too." Irene said nonchalantly, and Greg bursted out in laughter Presumably, the reaction of the kingdom to that statement was hilarious, John found himself agreeing with the boy. "I don't think that will be necessary, right John?" His girlfriend answered, adjusting the prince's tie in an obvious display of possessiveness.

"Birds, ey?" Exclaimed the other man, crossing his arms over the wine-coloured jacket he wore over strong shoulders. "Greg." He said as way of introduction.

"From the Sand Kingdom, right?" Asked the blue-eyed prince, overly interested in all the tales they could account.

"Nah," Was the casual reply, although his expression had turned a bit more bitter than it had been just a few seconds prior. "I'm an Island man. B.B. " ( _Before Barrier)_ He commented and John felt like a fool for asking such a stupid and insensitive question. Of course, this kid looked around his age, and by then, his father had already been banished from the Sand Lands for cycles, it was obvious he would have been born on The Isle of the Lost right before it had been named as such and a big barrier had been raised to keep them there.

"Oh, right. I-" He stumbled through his words, yet Lady Hudson —the saint— always knew when to interrupt in the most opportune of moments. "Your Majesty will show you all around the grounds today," She started. "And I will see you tomorrow at school first thing in the morning to talk about that education you were going on about." She declared and patted the blonde's back in affection, then turned to leave with a polite bow.

John turned to them again, and smiled broadly. "It's brilliant to actually meet you." He said once more, waving his hands in grandiose gestures. He already knew he would later regret being so eager about this meeting, a King need temperance and diplomacy as a virtue in such situation, but he just couldn't help himself. "This is a momentous occasion and one that I hope will go down in history as the day our two people began to heal-" He started.

"Or the day when you stopped talking and showed three people where the loos are." The youngest boy interrupted, arching his purple eyebrow in mischief. John stopped and lowered his hands, unsure what to do in the face of said embarrassment. _'Shit.'_ He muttered under his breath.

"Sorry," The blonde laughed nervously. "So much for first impressions," He said scratching the back of his neck. "The first words I say to you all and I already mucked it up. You probably think I'm a moron."

"Oh, your words have nothing to do with that." The other replied, a smirk painting on his face as he looked down from almost a head above. The prince giggled helplessly, losing all sense of property for the second time that morning. He didn't really know how tired he was of everyone treating him like a royal until these three foreigners provided a respite.

"Well, you must be Violet's son." Mary pitched in, mercilessly shattering the illusion. _'That's right,'_ John thought: the world was back to normal, he was still a prince and he had a protocol to follow. Sherlock nodded in admission to the statement, mumbling an _'obviously'_ under his breath.

"I hope we can put everything that happened between our families behind us," She commented amiably. "It's not like it's your fault your mum tried to kill my parents." Her smile made an appearance once more, yet the other's expression quickly turned defensive. "My mum is-"

"Margaret." Sherlock interrupted. "The Hundred Cycle Princess." His tone impossible to discern. Both of his friends, turned their heads to stare at each other and shared a nervous look. However, the leader's mood quickly changed, as if a fog had been hastily cleared away. Reseting his shoulders into relaxed and imperious posture. "I've heard the story," He amusedly commented. "No worries, I believe we can leave that in the past," His smile was infections; and John thought he had caught a glimpse of a real smile on his girlfriend's face. "As long as there's no more christenings."

"Ha!" Mary laughed, actually, _honestly,_ laughed. "You are a cheeky one, aren't you?" She asked but the silver eyes of the boy then moved to look at him, sparkling in the summer sun, not really paying any attention to the princess at all.

John cleared his throat and said, "So, a brief tour of the grounds." He gestured and started walking towards the very front of the building, motioning to the group to follow. "Auradon Prep: built over three hundred cycles ago, and converted into an educational institute by my father when he was elected King." He said as an introduction to the impressive-looking piece of architecture on the grounds, sturdy light brown bricks encompassing the structure and the tall towers were decorated with Auradon banners in gold and blue. They also passed the royal gardens, green and colourful. The prince could notice how dazzled the three kids seemed, staring at buoyant nature the likes of which are so seldom seen in The Isle, —or so he had read on the books—. Arrangements of yellow dahlias and bright indigo forget-me-nots growing wildly surrounded by the most vibrant of shades of green and tangling their way up over the rock. At the center of it, stood a statue of a man that John knew very well —as did everyone in the realm— his father's figure standing proud and authoritative.

As they were passing he clapped his hands, and the statue magically transformed into a humanoid beast covered in fur. The party trailing behind him appeared a bit startled at the sudden change, even if they tried to conceal the surprise. "My father wanted his statue to morph from beast to man, as a symbol of transformation." He explained. Smiling up at the massive duplicate of his dad, which John frankly found hysterical.

"Does he shed much?" Asked Sherlock, with a look of amused consideration as if he were actually weighting the possibilities.

"Yes," Answered John playfully. "Mum won't let him on the couch." He added, and this brought a smile to the others and he could even hear an amused laugh from where Greg was standing. These teenagers actually seemed nice and likable —if a bit saucy— and that made the prince start to feel much more at ease with his self-appointed task; if they continued being so charmingly accommodating, things would go extremely smoothly looking forward.

"For a society that considers it outdated, you seem to rely heavily on magic." Commented Sherlock once they entered the main hall of the bright castle and they noticed the moving paintings on the ceiling. John couldn't really remember having told them that magical abilities had been monitored, restricted and essentially ignored for cycles, but he supposed it could have been obvious for an outsider in some way. "What happened with all the spells and cauldrons?" He asked. "The wands?" He sounded like a curious child in search for information, his coat whirling behind him giving him a strange amalgamated appearance between dramatic and innocent.

"We try to prosper on technological development," He clarified. "Much more reliable." They came to a stop at the centre of the hall, a vast space with multiple story-high ceilings and covered in pristine oak wood and a double stair stretching from the centre of the floor and branching out into opposites sides of the room. "Everything else is just window dressing." John said.

The three arrivals shared a incredulous expression between each other, as Greg crossed his arms in confusion. "Yet you still rely on monarchy and royal blood?" He asked while Irene looked between the prince and the princess. Their faces all appeared to be judging something, and the blonde had a strong feeling they were falling quite short at whatever it was.

At the face of such an unexpected turn on the conversation, John was unsure on how to proceed. How do you explain the whole political and historical map to three foreigners you just met in under five minutes? He opened his mouth to answer, but the only words that came out where a small "Well it's com-" but even those sounded incredibly weak.

Mary interrupted once more, in annoyance or assistance he failed to determine. "Traditional" She quickly said, "Customs that date back hundreds of cycles." She wrapped an arm around one of John's and looked to him in demand of support.

Just at that moment two familiar faces were seen coming down from the left stair, chatting amiably between them and not quite paying attention to the monumental event happening just meters across from them. "Sally! Philip!" The Prince called and smiled. Motioning them over and attempting to save himself from the embarrassment that was dealing with strangers clearly much more observant and intelligent than him. The two young students looked down from the rail and brightened up in recognition; however as soon as they noticed the bizarre looking figures standing in front of the prince and princess they made an unintentional rude grimace. "Come down to meet the new members of our kingdom."John said, and both of them did not seem particularly pleased with the idea, but schooled their faces quickly, a command —even if it was a tiny request— from the King-to-be was unwise to dismiss. Sighing, the both of them made their way down and came to stand fairly back and away from them.

The first was a boy around John's height —which wasn't very impressive despite the prince's heritage— and black straight hair styled back. His thin lips showed a curl of undisguised animosity towards the newcomers. The girl next to him, dark skinned with wild curly haired and round eyes faked a smile and bowed down before her sovereign. Acknowledging his authority.

"These are Philip and Sally," The blue eyed introduced. "They are nice mates and are going to help you with the schedules and show you the dorm rooms." He explained, patting the first on the back in easy camaraderie. The grandfather clock on the far wall chimed twice, marking the beginning of another one of his obligations. "Gotta dash, but if you have anything else you need, anytime, about any topic, you come and find me, okay?" Came the amiable offer, addressing them with quick regard now that he could see all his life-long dreams being materialised with their sole presence. "I'm quite hard to loose." John joked as Princess Mary looped her arm around his shoulder and turned them around to leave in a swash of her baby blue summer dress. The blonde let himself be lead but still uttered a polite farewell over his shoulder. His eyes lingering on their faces even when he couldn't possibly make out any attributes due to distance.

* * *

As soon as John was gone their expressions fell completely, as if there was no reason for them to be cheery if their prince was not there to see it. It would be incredibly easier for Sherlock to keep up the same act if the inhabitants of this dull kingdom were not complete dunces. But he had to swallow every nasty thing he wished to say in order to maintain the ruse. As soon as they had the wand they could do whatever the hell they liked. However, it would do him no favours to alert any member of the court or the Prince's close circle of acquaintances of their actual intentions. The less they knew, the better. Complete ignorance was the goal and Sherlock was relieved to find out there was not a lot of work to be done on that front, most of them were there already.

"Classes are from 8 to 3," The girl, Sally, started listing as she quickly strode through the halls of the dorms, a put upon expression on her face. The sleeves on her soft green jumper lined with distinct stains which made the purple-haired teen arrive to two conclusions: first, he knew exactly who her parents were, and second, everyone on that realm had the worst possible sense of dress. Aside from the horrible quality of her style choices, the other terrible attribute she had was her quite obvious inclination for having secrets affairs of a sexual nature with morons like the one standing beside her. "One hour for lunch," She continued, completely oblivious of every tell that her demeanour was already feeding Sherlock along with information to store and use later for ill-natured purposes. "Then extra-curricular lessons, including _'Remedial Goodness 101'._ " She finished, stopping in front of a door which would clearly be their bedroom and handing an itinerary over to Lestrade in finality; evidently anxious for the meeting to be over; the only sentiment all people present seemed to share.

"New class?" Sherlock mocked, drawing attention to the ridiculous notion. Smiling innocently but with a lost less effort to appear genuine; once he realised how biased they already were, his attempts lessened to the point were he thought he was no longer fooling anyone.

"Listen," Chimed in the boy who had inherited all his father's wealth, but none of his famed charm. "No matter how much John thinks you are-" He was, however, stopped by Lestrade stepping in with his hands exposed on a clear harmless gesture.

"Mate," He said using the term he had heard John apply with the function of familiarity, Sherlock, even if always gloomy could say he was mildly impressed with the uncharacteristic insightful observation. "We don't want any trouble." Greg said, and hands came down to be stuffed inside the pockets of his leather jacket.

Irene's eyes lit up with opportunity and her smiling red lips mumbled out ' _that depends on the type of trouble…'_ to which the other just made a stern shushing sound and whispered her name in warning. The Woman didn't seem fazed by the scolding, if anything it made her grin in mirth even more. The two students in front of them watched in exasperation and skepticism as Greg opened the door and stepped into the room, followed by Irene; "So," Sally prompted, crossing her thin arms in defiance —which were obviously a trait given to her by her frog-kissing mother.

Before any of them could mention any other dull thing, Sherlock took the last step past the threshold, and happily uttered, "Thank you for the tour." And promptly shut the door in their faces.

The moment the door banged close and they turned, a grand, opulent room came into full view, with intricately designed bedposts, wooden decorations and plush carpet. It was impeccably arranged, the two beds —Irene will obviously be staying in the women's wing— shoved on each side and three impressive windows lining the south wall. The whole ambiance radiated class and serenity; and Sherlock _hated_ it.

"I could certainly get used to living like this," Irene admitted as she flung herself down on a comfortable armchair at the corner of the space. "Lavish curtains and velvet upholstery." She explained, while her hand caressed said rich fabric; they didn't have such nice things on The Island, which was exactly the reason why Sherlock felt such animosity towards them; all those superfluous, unnecessary things brought only distrust and unease in him.

"Well don't." He replied bitterly, "We have a mission, and once it's accomplished the place won't look like this for much longer," The other two shared a look of uncertainty while he continued on muttering about that being an improvement. He turned and dropped his bags heavily on what would become his bed for as long as it took to retrieve said wand.

"So bringing down generations worth of monarchy," Lestrade said, "How do we do that?" He asked. Sherlock hastily yanked open the zip of his first suitcase and rummaged inside; taking in hand his crucial spell-book and turned around to face his two accomplices.

"Let's start with the location." He announced.


	4. Chapter 3: Midnight Heist

**Chapter 3: Midnight Heist**

 _A heist is fairly similar to a robbery, the only aspects required are a team of trained burglars with varying skills, a carefully devised plan, a fortified institution and a highly valuable object to illegally retrieve. For better results, make sure to have a magical advantage._

Despite the frankly horrific decoration and the annoyingly idiotic inhabitants, Sherlock could admit Auradon did have its noticeable upsides; even if only to make doing evil a lot easier. Because for every soft pastel blue with mint green bed sheets and fake, cheery smiles, there was the easiest-to-hack data base about every magical relic guarded on the kingdom, conveniently mentioning each artifact's location along with the estimated time of arrival to said destination from the user's standing point. The rebel found he liked the place solely because of the fact of how desperately it seemed to be begging to be brought down by someone else.

His first impression of the land had not been particularly good; he appeared to have been terribly accurate about his assessment of the country and its citizens. Despite harbouring more dirty secrets than anyone in the Island ever could, they still managed to be boringly straightforward about it. Their desperate need to be accepted by their peers and the strong reliance on everyone else's opinion made them ashamed of an incredible amount of ridiculous things, —or at least see them as unacceptable.

The Royals were no different, it seemed that having a title of nobility made nothing to make the bearer's character more… noble. They were all an open book to him, and so far, the only person he had encountered whose character seemed completely congruent with his beliefs was Prince John. Who, despite being credulous enough to really think this was going to end in any way other than disaster, had managed to prove in the span of one conversation people in the Kingdom didn't necessarily need to be morons beyond help. Sherlock was still deciding if that made him more or even less tolerable than all his peers.

The sun was already down, and the absence of blinding, hot light made the room the least bit more bearable, if one were to ask the violet-haired boy —the amount of sun-screen he would need if they stayed any longer would be laughable, Sherlock couldn't wait to go back to the island were it was always grey and gloomy. Lestrade had come bounding down the hall and emptied the contents of his bag on top of the plush comforter. "Someone had fun?" Irene asked, getting up from her seat at the desk and inspected the various items scattered across Greg's bed.

"It's called stealing." He answered, taking a confident stance and popping his knuckles in satisfaction. The smug grin on his face was prominent since they had arrived to the castle, he smiled at Irene and she replied with rolling eyes.

Sherlock picked up an expensive looking box and inspected its insides. "What is the purpose?" He asked, flicking his grey eyes up to gauge perfectly the other's expression.

Lestrade's eyebrows drew together in confusion at the question, and he considered his answer. "Well, it's like buying whatever we want," He explained, not entirely sure why he had to clarify the act to someone who had clearly done his fair share of burglary on his own right. "Except it's free." He said and shrugged his shoulders.

"Okay," Came the younger boy's reply, slow and with a very subtle hint of edginess. "So, you could do that, or…" He said running his fingertips across the smooth surface of the case in his hands. Suddenly, he stopped and let the item fall from his grasp carelessly. "You could leave all of this nonsense here and pick it up when we take over the kingdom." Sherlock smiled sarcastically, his eyes sparkling and his lips pursing in a satisfied smirk.

Irene laughed amusedly, uncrossing her legs and taking a stray wave of her indigo hair and trying to replace it on its place. "You are starting to sound like Moriarty." She offered, while Lestrade kept retrieving more stolen goods from his backpack.

"God forbid!" Sherlock gasped and snickered. Eyeing The Woman with a side glance as he returned his attention to the computer tracking their target. However, Greg did not seem completely interested. Choosing instead to stay sitting on his bed to asses his property. "Have it your own way." He mumbled.

Sherlock turned around and arched one of his eyebrows at him in consideration. "Lestrade, I know your intellectual prowess leaves much to be desired." He started, and tilted his head sideways when he say the look of outrage pass through the other's face. "But you cannot seriously have already forgotten why we're here." The younger man ended.

Greg stood from the bed and slowly approached the desk. Sherlock stood his ground and smiled innocently at him. Once the reached him, Lestrade fumed but said nothing, instead he grabbed the chair and turned it on axis, sitting backwards astride it and crossing his arms over the back. "Lady Hudson, blah, blah, blah," The strong man recited casually, mocking his friend's upper-class accent. "Magic wand, blah, blah, blah."

Irene was eyeing him expectantly, clearly anticipating Sherlock to bristle at that; everyone knew he hated when people somehow implied his heritage meant he had not really gained his machiavellian reputation on his own, when, in reality, those who witnessed him closely knew that if anything, the fact that his mother had been the The Mistress of Evil seemed to hinder his villainous carrier more than help it. But the boy —true to form— did the unexpected and laughed. That half-hearted chuckle of amusement he sometimes made when something had clearly went exactly the way he wanted.

At that moment, the other two teenagers realised what had happened. Sherlock had played them both, again. Lestrade scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment and The Woman eyed him half-frustrated and half-approving, getting closer to inspect what the computer in the desk was displaying.

"It appears we have a destination." She commented, gesturing where the screen had stopped searching and showed the exact place where they could retrieve that which would give them the power to completely change the way the world worked to their advantage. The boy with the violet curls instantly abandoned his diversion and bent down to inspect the information. Smirking at noting how close Hudson's Wand really was.

"So, when are we going?" Greg impatiently asked from his left. He rose from the chair and shook his silver hair back in style, grabbing his fingerless gloves from the wooden nightstand and zipping up his red jacket. Irene smiled and she also gracefully removed herself from her seat, they all extremely enjoyed this stage of their usual routine —which they had perfected over their cycles together as the most troublesome gang of The Isle— where the rush of anticipation peaked just before the time of execution came.

"Well," Replied Sherlock, turning the collar of his long coat up, resembling dragon neck spikes as he always did when he was preparing to go into battle. "We did always love midnight heists." He said, and strode out of the room. Yelling to the two trailing miscreants at his back. "Irene, bring the mirror!"

The three of them easily slipped past the guards of the building and went out into the night, with determination written on their faces and nothing more than trouble in their minds.

* * *

As they approached the 'Cultural Museum of Wizardry and History' —or the frankly ridiculous acronym often used: CMWH—Sherlock, Irene and Lestrade stood outside a brick tower with a very high window. The structure was something impressive, even from the outside, its high walls and slanted ceilings were akin to moving crystals and the white blocks seemed to somehow absorb the light more than reflect it.

"Irene," Sherlock called, shaking the two others from their contemplation of the massive monument that the Museum was. "Your mirror." He reminded, from behind the tree on which he was leaning to avoid being seen.

Said green eyed girl flashed out the enchanted reflector and quickly whispered the desired object. Maybe technology had been very accurate as of where they could find the Wand, yet the map could only get them so far and the mirror will not only show them the specific storage place, but also the obstacles they may encounter on their path prior to that. "It's at the East wing." She said, looking at her reflection, after spiriting away the instructions. "We'll have to take the main entrance."

"Go big or go home." The younger boy smirked. He slowly walked to the tall double door right at the centre of the main wall, and peered inside its drop-framed windows. Lestrade rushed to his side and curiously looked inside too, but the seductress chose instead to leisurely advance while still looking to their surroundings, in search for any sign of someone else being close by.

What the two boys saw when they interestedly glanced inside through the awkwardly shaped windows was a sight to behold. A grand hall with various paintings lining the walls and an array of different curious and potentially fascinating artifacts displayed throughout the space.

"Is that your mother's wheel?" Greg asked, stifling a giggle at the sight. Right at the middle of the exhibition was a very normal, and not at all impressive spinning thread wheel which his mother had used to cast a more than hundred-cycle slumber spell over those small-minded royals who had dared to dismiss her talents and had banished her from the crown's council. She had apparently let them throw the first punch, but had inevitably retaliated with a skill and force impossible to overpower or even match—if the stories could be completely believed. Turning her into the famed most evil and intelligent being on the magical realms. The only reason she had failed on getting her way for an even longer time was just because all magic was bound to be broken by something as a rule. Someone had yet to encounter any sort of witchcraft which was unable to be made null. The wheel in front of them was proof of that. "It's quite…dorky." Greg said, while Sherlock glared at him.

Irene laughed from behind them and swiftly turned around to see the item in question. "It's magical allocation," The boy countered as his silver eyes were analysing the scene and its possible weaknesses. "It doesn't have to look scary. It just needs to _work_." He explained, while his two companions looked at each other and shared a knowing rise of eyebrows.

Inside the building, they could observe a guard, sat on a very uncomfortable chair at the corner of the room. He was clearly there to stop any intruders or robbers from somehow bypassing the obvious magical protection the museum had on its perimeter —basically just what they intended on doing. Sherlock whipped out his new book, the one with which he had spent all afternoon familiarising himself. Expertly flipping the pages until he happened unto something he could use for the situation. He concentrated, closed his eyes and mentally recited the words from the text, yet when he opened them again the guard was still there and nothing had changed at all. "Very impressive." The indigo-haired girl whispered, and the boy's jaw set. The thing with magic was that it didn't really work unless the intention was clear inside your head, no matter how skilled or naturally gifted you were. Sherlock frustratedly shut his eyes and tried again, but there was no improvement.

"Having a hard time there, _mate_?" Greg added, and giggled as the oblivious officer inside continued watching his program on the television without a care in the world.

"Oh, for evil's sake!" Sherlock challenged and stippled his hands under his chin, swiftly entering his memory storage space he called Mind Palace and started drawing into the light every time he had heard the term of 'magic' being used and envisioning the actions in the invisible room inside his head. Suddenly, an odd set of flares started burning behind his eyelids. As soon as he heard the others gasp, he was brought back to the real world and immediately searched for the source of amazement. It was then when he recognised the guard making his way to the centre of the room, in a very stinted and unnatural way, only to stop right before the wheel and confidently pricking his finger on the needle and plummeting to the floor; set in an apparently deep sleep.

Sherlock smiled satisfied. Smugly turning to his two stupefied companions and their impressed faces. The boy could feel something course through his veins, a silent yet powerful bubbling beneath the surface; he had felt it before but it had never run as freely as it was right then, he found out he quite enjoyed the sensation.

After the surprise had worn down, Irene made for the door, which was obviously locked, bolted and magically protected. No matter how hard the three of them might push it would never budge; the intricately carved wood would stayed closed shut for the remaining hours of the night. Lestrade gestured them to stand back and walked away from the door in clear intent of kicking it open. Sherlock calculated his weight would be able to achieve so, yet it would require either a lot of precision on the first try, or too much time —neither of them things they had in abundance at the moment. The violet-haired boy opted then to use his newfound ability for enchantments and swiftly searched for something appropriate on his leather-bound book just as Lestrade had started running right behind him. Once Sherlock had finished reciting, the doors swung open and Greg was left falling with no wood to offer resistance.

From the floor, the brown-eyed boy eyed the others in resentment as they laughed and stepped over him to enter the museum. "Coming?" Sherlock asked to his back, while they were already half-way through the hall. Dusting off his trousers, Greg stood up and quickly followed them. Irene used the mirror to guide them on the corridors and down the stairs.

On their way they passed several chambers containing all sorts of magical and historical relics; detailing back to key changing points in the way their kingdom was built. Signs describing the events and the subjects involved, narrating tales of heroism and bravery and monstrous evil. Sherlock looked at each of them in curiosity, completely aware that most of the items displayed were not actually the originals, but nothing more than a copy or duplicate intended for shadowboxing —the real deals were obviously stored somewhere far more secure— he found the notion of everything he knew, or did not know yet, about why his world was the way it was constricted small inside one sole building fascinating. It didn't seem fair, that the life of a whole kingdom could be packed and showcased so simply, into such a trivial thing.

One of the last rooms they encountered on their path to the basement vault was the 'Hall of Evil' where all the information about the villains and wrong-doers was displayed. The place was heavily decorated; the black, brick walls contrasting perfectly with the simulated green fire that lined the perimeter of the exhibition. There were all sorts of cursed objects and tokens from the most famous of miscreants, yet that was not what made the three teenagers halt. Frozen in their tracks as if some lingering enchantment had casted its effect in their forms. At the far wall of the hall there was a platform that rose from the floor under a round skylight ceiling, and on top of it there were several statues; models of real life-size of the greatest evil minds the realm had ever seen.

"What the hell?" Greg exclaimed. Eyeing the figure of his father with a confused frown all over his expression. The Great Schemer was holding a snake scepter and his face was contorted in a vicious snarl. Never mind how tough and ruthless Lestrade was, watching his progenitor like that did not make him feel at ease at all. "I'm never forgetting father's day again." He commented.

At the other end of the room, Irene was experiencing much the same sort of situation. Inspecting the statue of her mother in quiet disbelief, as if she were seeing her face for the first time in her life. It didn't really help that The Adler Queen appeared disheveled in rage, when she rarely had a lock of her blue hair out of place.

The two of them retreated in faux nonchalance, and hurried out of the room with the pretence of not losing time in a room in which they knew the wand was not stored. For Sherlock, of course, it was quite a different experience. He was locked in place with no real hope or knowledge of whether he was ever going to be able to move again. In the exact middle of the stage, right underneath the biggest spotlight sat a figure of Violet Holmes in all her brutal glory. Clad all in black, with a flowing leather cape much like his own coat over his back. Her hair glowed purple and her sharp almond-shaped eyes were a piercing lime green that put the flames of the hall to shame; on her head sat what very much looked like a crown with two twisting horns protruding from the base, as if she weren't able to shed off _The Dragon_ even when in her human form. Sherlock swallowed and took a tentative step towards it, not daring to move more than a bit at once. It had been thirteen sun-cycles since he had last saw her, and those first three cycles of his life were admittedly not entirely clear or true on the details that used to make his mother. Staring at her now made all sorts of old fears and apprehensions come bubbling up to the surface of his body. He looked at her face as if she were going to deliver him the answers of every doubt inside his soul. Of every time he had wondered who —if not _what_ — he really is.

Every villain had a silver plaque placed at the bottom of their pedestal, indicating the name of each one and detailing the deeds for which they had been charged; some of them had quite a big paragraph the more you approached to the centre. However, the plaque at his mother's feet just read ' _Violet Holmes. Mistress of Evil.'_ That, and nothing else. As if it were easier to just summarise instead of listing each and every crime she had committed. The boy was stuck, his breathing coming in shallow gasps. "Sherlock, let's go." He heard Irene call from behind him, but it did nothing to deter him from his cryogenic immobility.

He remembered so little, yet so much about her. Her soft voice making an impossible mark on his mind. Her cruel lessons. Yet he failed to determine whether he actually could reminisce all of those things or if he had conjured them up as a toddler and then forgotten there was really no truth to the memory. Much like he had failed to _'remember'_ correctly how the sun had looked before the dome had been set upon the island. The filaments of that night he had engraved inside his very being, the horrible sounds, the fear he had felt, but what he simply couldn't forget, no matter how hard he tried, were the blue eyes of his big brother, so very filled with despair, the very last time he saw him, before he had gotten lost into thin air, the day he was left completely alone in the world.

His eyes took on a mixture of enraged with an edge of confusion. No matter whether he understood it or not, this is how his mother used to be and how he was going to grow up to be; the usual satisfying taste he got at such thought turned just slightly sour at the scene in front of his eyes, as if the task seemed daunting all of a sudden.

Taking a moment to calm himself, he breathed slowly, attempting to bring forth all his confidence and resolve. After this exercise, the balance on his psyche appeared to have mostly been restored and that is when he spotted something he had anticipated even less than a statue of his dead parent: behind Violet, there was a figure that could be seen peeking from behind her back, slightly crouching but very much dignified. The dark, dead eyes of Jim Moriarty seeming to stare straight into his soul. The intensity of his sight achieved by two empty, crystal marbles, Sherlock knew not whether to be disturbed or impressed at such craftsmanship. His plaque read several different crimes, not short of murder, treason and flaying; but what really caught the violet-haired boy's attention was how little information there actually was of him committing any of the accused crimes. Just as if the deeds were more stories and rumours rather than witnessed affairs.

Sherlock didn't need any sort of proof, of course. He had lived first-hand how incredibly machiavellian Moriarty could be when provoked —or even when _not_ provoked— and he actually admired his inventive mind. The boy learned every little mad lesson he could and had made of mischief a daily routine, always attempting to do the worst he could; yet he always seemed to fall short in the eyes of the villain, the brown eyes looking at him with such exasperation within. Flashes of memories floating in front of his gaze. Reminisces of an incident he had tried to bury deep inside his Mind Palace. That time when he had disappointed James in a way he never had before.

He was eleven cycles old at the time, with big dreams of becoming a great and ruthless character. A big arson was taking place at the middle of the streets, half of The Isle had been set aflame, and Sherlock had never seen something so bright and so mesmerizing. Moriarty had spread his outrage at being challenged throughout the whole city. Demonstrating in the worst way he was not someone whom you could attempt to oppose.

It had all seemed fine at the beginning; just the regular misbehaviour and sins you learned to expect while living on the island. But soon enough, young Sherlock could start noticing some unusual things, a break in the pattern; and he couldn't help but being curious by the reason. The violet-haired boy sneaked through alleyways until he managed to follow Moriarty just to end at the high edge of a mountain cliff. The villain had been chasing down a member of the Ricoletti family, the one stupid enough to try and antagonise him —because who could ever want Moriarty as an enemy?— and once he had him cornered just a step away from certain death, his gun trained to him, he stopped. The figure of the man was trembling in fear, at the distance where Sherlock was hiding he could see it perfectly.

They exchanged a few words that the boy had not been able to discern; but suddenly, James turned around and, with such a casual manner he invited Sherlock to come closer, to take a field seat where the action was taking place. Said boy had hesitated at first, scratching his arm in apprehension, no matter how excited he felt of being able to partake in a serious act of rotten exploits. He hurried to the side of his tutor, big eyes and lanky limbs shaking from the adrenaline of uncertainty. However, what Moriarty said to him had shattered any illusion of his role in the scene.

"Push him." He had ordered. Smiling benignly, and placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"What?" Sherlock had asked, perplexed by what was being asked of him.

Moriarty theatrically rolled his eyes in annoyance, halting just as he was about to make him uncomfortable. "Push him!" He intoned, as if he were the performer of the softest lullaby. Softly encouraging him to just do the simplest thing he had asked.

"But-" Sherlock hesitated and turned to look at the man still crying, kneeling on the floor of that high precipice. He remembered stretching out his hand to the victim's chest. Just shy of touching him. It was obvious James did these things all the time —or he had someone else do them for him— you'd have to be a moron not to know, but the violet-haired boy, just fresh out of his stumbling cycles, had foolishly never thought to imagine himself in such situations. His young brain, even if sharp beyond his cycles, could not comprehend why it had to be _him_ the one to do it. Jim was clearly the more experienced one and would not waste them precious time wondering how one went about those things.

He had clearly taken too long, because Jim was growing impatient behind him. "Ugh," The criminal started. "Well, he's not going to do it himself." he commented, and then twisted around to regard Thomas Ricoletti, "Will you?" He asked, a disinterested colour to his voice.

The kneeling man stayed silent, his hands quivering behind his head and his chest bouncing as he whimpered in terror. He was supposed to be a formidable villain, but against the force of James Moriarty no one ever seemed to be able to battle for long.

James turned around again, eyeing Sherlock in expectation. Focusing his gaze at the other's expression to recognise what was going on inside his head. The boy's hand retreated, just a little, but for the older man it was all the proof he required.

Sighing in disappointment, Moriarty lowered the gun. "Ordinary," He muttered under his breath and motioned for the boy to stand back. He gyrated and his heel in dismissiveness. Thomas' sniffles were resounding at the empty space of the mountain, and for a very brief moment Sherlock thought Moriarty was going to let him crawl back into his cave. However, after pausing for a moment the man quickly raised his hand and pushed. "Aaand he's gone." He mocked, a smile painting the whole of his face. Taking one last look back and leaving the boy behind.

Sherlock's hands had been shaking for a whole new different reason then. Anger at his hesitation to do an act so vital in the lives of deviants and miscreants; how was he supposed to emulate and transcend his mother's legacy if he failed to do such a trivial thing as to giving a little nudge to someone who was already good as dead?

After that, he struggled to be as mad and rotten as he was able —and he was very able— yet that incident had never left him. He carried it around like a tattoo of shame. The fact that he had failed to do the same since then on two different occasions was of no help. It was not because he was afraid, or because of some misguided moral compass that he felt he should refrain, —he had no cares for what is right— he just hasn't done it yet. Another, more devilish alternative had always presented itself, and Sherlock was nothing if not throughout. He was aware that _'test'_ was still waiting for him when he returned to the Island, when The Wand was obtained and all of that was over. And now, he saw the means of how so close he could almost grab them.

Once he dragged himself away from the chamber of evil things, he encountered Greg and Irene who were already standing outside a large vault, awaiting their own mastermind to appear and break into it. Shaking off the previous feeling of inadequacy, Sherlock smirked, turned up the collar on his leather coat and strode over to do what he did best.

The safe was opened in a surprisingly short amount of time, and the three of them found themselves inside one of the most guarded places of the kingdom, among all the enchanted and perilous artifacts. Passing some interesting objects, they stumbled upon the main event. Finally: Lady Hudson's magic wand. The wand was suspended. Floating inside a beam of bright blue light at the centre of the vault. The magic swirling around it a clear suggestion to back off. The teens were gathered around it trying to figure out how to retrieve it, but just before the violet-haired boy would whip out his book of spells and attempt something to break the obvious force field Lestrade extended his hand towards the prize and a loud siren started sounding as soon his hand made contacted with the light.

Irene cursed loudly and started running towards the exit, the other two right behind them. Sherlock loathed to leave the wand behind, but his newly acquired magical skills were inexperienced at best and he doubted he would be able to triumph against the group of officers that would be swarming the place in a few moments.

"A force field _and_ a siren?" Greg commented as they climbed up the stairs two at a time. "Seems a bit excessive." He laughed.

Just as they were approaching the way out, Irene suddenly turned away and went to stand right in front of the controls were the guard, who was now deeply sleeping on the floor possibly for the rest of eternity —Sherlock didn't know the duration of the spells he was casting yet, he literally had just gotten the ability that morning— had been sitting. Confused, the other troublemakers tried to catch her attention but she just waved them off and picked up the phone resting on the desk. "Hello?" She softly said into the speaker, using that voice Sherlock had witnessed at work a thousand times before. "One second, dear." She appeared to look for something on the notes and papers scattered over the surface. "No honey, false alarm, it was a malfunction on the circuit. Yeah? Okay, bye." She hung up, to the astonishment of her friends. She strutted past them and walked out of the museum with a huge grin on her face. "Men are so easy." The girl declared.

"Brilliant, Greg." Sherlock grumbled in annoyance once they were out of danger of being discovered. "Now we have to go to school in the morning."

* * *

John's chambers were as they had always been, ever since he was a little boy dreaming of being a knight, he had kept this very room. Yes, as the next in line for the throne he was able —and should— choose any one of the other thirty eight rooms of the castle that he wanted; but he found his childhood bedroom was where he felt most comfortable. It was also where he did his best thinking. The big window had always framed most of his dreams as he woke up, and now that he was older he would be sorry to see that gone.

He was standing outside his balcony, thoughtfully tracing the patterns on the stone rail. He looked out into the night, staring at the twinkling lights across the kingdom contrasting to the island across the sea plunged into darkness. He sighed. The events of the day had left him hopeful, painting a smile on his face that he prayed would last him a few weeks.

"Today seemed successful." Came the strong voice of his girlfriend from behind him. He turned around and smiled at her while Mary approached him. She wrapped close the blue, light jumper she was wearing. "Are you happy?" She asked, a hint of restraint in her movements as she came to stand next to him in the balcony.

The prince was startled by the question, which was no surprise since his girlfriend was usually really perceptive. "What? No." He said. "Not yet. They still have to live here, give them a chance to see the world from another angle." He explained, but kept looking at the vast open air, as if he were already envisioning the outcome. Mary was not entirely encouraged by such behaviour. "Right now, we just made them change zipcodes." He said.

"You think they will?" Asked the princess, probably fearing the answer she knew she would get from John. "Change their ways, I mean. Learn how to behave like us?" She clarified, running one hand through her short hair and completely ignoring the sight in front of her, choosing instead to stare at John's class ring on her finger. It had been childish, she supposed, John offering it to her as if they still lived on the Dragon Ages; yet she couldn't stop staring at it.

"They don't have to be like us, Mary." John answered truthfully. Making sure to pronounce every word perfectly like he had the power to make it so just because he said it. His strong hands were gripping the rail in excitement and determination, the princess knew it would never be easy to dissuade him from this one.

"Why?" She queried. Genuinely curious as to what exactly John hoped it would happen with this backwards situation; people on the Isle were there for a reason, and she was sure nothing could ever come out of it that had not been already been touched by corruption. She feared that was the last thing their realm, already in the brink of crumbling, needed.

John didn't respond His blue eyes were still trained on a distant far away land, but for Mary that was answer enough.


	5. Chapter 4: Manipulation On A Tuesday

**Chapter 4: Manipulation On A Tuesday**

 _Manipulation is a type of social influence that aims to change the behaviour or perception of others through deceptive tactics. A successful manipulation can only be achieved when the subject isn't aware that they are being influenced in any way. For better results also view: lying._

Well, it turns out _'Remedial Goodness 101'_ was even worse that they had initially anticipated. Not only did the subjects and questions were redacted for extremely stupid people, but the whole class was completely pointless. Sherlock felt he was about to melt off his desk in utter, tortuous boredom. Seriously, who in hell could believe learning that one should avoid carving out a baby's heart if one attempted to be good —obviously— would make any difference. It wasn't that the villain kids had no clue on what one did if they desired to 'do good', it was just a matter of not wanting to do it. If he had to hear another questionnaire about the morality of curses he was sure he would spontaneously combust.

After answering yet another _'what do you do when…'_ question right, Irene —who was sat at his right— chipped in, "You seem to be on fire today, Sherl." She commented half-disinterestedly. Sherlock wished he were actually _on_ fire, it would at least be less painful that sitting there and listening to that non-sense for another second. He turned to look at the girl and comically rolled his eyes at her. The notebook in front of her containing everything but class content; filled with some casual sketches and highly inappropriate ideas she seemed to be getting. Sherlock supposed at least by telling them 'what not to do', this class could spark some interesting notions to cause chaos.

"I just pick the one that doesn't sound like any fun." He answered, to which Lestrade threw a loud and interrupting belly laugh that cut off the voice asking yet another situational interrogation. Mrs. Hudson —who had appointed herself, as main Defender of Light, to impart as much knowledge of virtuousness to the three additions to the school's alumni— cleared her throat impatiently, clearly not at all amused that they seemed to be taking the class so indifferently.

Just as she was about to berate them once more to pay attention, a petite figure entered the classroom quickly and as quietly as was possible for any human to walk. She was of small stature, brown eyes and walked with her brunnete-topped head down, as if trying to draw the least level of attention to herself that she could. Walking with short, yet swift steps towards Lady Hudson and shuffling her frankly atrociously clad feet as she waited for the older woman to notice her.

"Oh. Hello, dear." Hudson greeted. Extending an amiably smile towards what appeared to be such a familiar face in front of her. Sherlock evaluated you didn't really need to be a genius to see the resemblance; but since he was, he could tell a lot more than just the familial traits on their bodies.

"You need to sign off the early dismissal for the coronation." The girl said, while she passed a brown folder to her grandmother. She tugged on the sleeves of her flower patterned jumper in apprehension at having three strange pair of eyes fixed on her. With her standing that close to the group, the violet-haired boy could observe even more details from her stance, and the interesting thing happening with the girl's hair had a wicked idea already forming inside his head; you don't get that pink from just _anywhere._

"Everyone knows my granddaughter, Molly?" The older woman introduced, to which Lestrade turned his head and looked at him with a pleased glint on his gaze, Sherlock knew exactly what it was that his companion wanted. Irene arched an eyebrow in regard but dismissed her fairly quickly. Sherlock, however, was smiling with the possibilities this meeting would reap.

"It's okay." The girl muttered, and struggled to gather the papers she had dropped in nervousness. Anxiously attempting to get out of the room before she could embarrass herself further. "Don't mind me."

Molly hurried out of the classroom along with all her belongings, and the class droned on for the remaining twenty minutes. Lestrade and Irene got to try out his theory of getting the right answer just by choosing what seemed the least appealing option; but he wouldn't have known, because in his mind he was already weaving strategies.

* * *

"Hold on!" The booming voice of the coach was heard across the field, followed by the high-pitched ring of his whistle which halted all the players in and out of the designated _'kill-zone'_. Tourney was the most important sport of the whole kingdom, making it rise above every other in the hierarchy of physical abilities. John, of course, was not only in love with the sport, but was also naturally the best player their school had. He counted becoming the First Knight —basically captain— of the team one of his biggest achievements; since it was something he had gained solely by passion, talent and hard-work. It had nothing to do with who his parents were, or the title that had been placed upon his shoulders since the day he was born. The accomplishment was entirely and exclusively _his_ and that was a feeling unlike any other the prince had ever experienced.

Today's practice was specially interesting since it would be the first —of many— that would feature players from The Isle of Lost. To say John was beyond excited would be a gross understatement. "Team!" The coach yelled and motioned the players to gather close and greet the newest addition to the game.

Greg Lestrade was standing in the middle of the field, wearing the right uniform and crossing his arms in an expression of dubious disinterest. John approached him and waved, to which he only got a half-hearted scrunched of eyebrows in return. They were fun —these kids from the isle. "This is Lestrade," The tall man said, waving the papers he was holding in obvious sign of its official state. "And he will be joining us at regular practices from now on." He announced, and both Greg and John looked around for the second head that should be among the players. "Where's Sherlock?" The blonde boy asked, raising his sight up to the coach in wait for information.

"Oh, you mean the other one?" He asked nonchalantly; the two teenagers nodded their heads, one in anticipation, the other with annoyance already painting his features. "He has a skin condition that prevents him from attending any outdoors activities, the poor kid." The coach explained. "So it will only be you with us."

"Bastard!" Lestrade uttered, clearly used to his friend getting away with things by lying, and the prince couldn't help but chuckle at the word, knowing fully well he shouldn't laugh at such a term —even if only said in jest— most kids of the villains _were_ bastards, including Sherlock, and it was in very bad taste for a royal to insult such societal status, but he was unable to contain; besides he doubted the violet-haired boy would have been insulted had he heard him, he looked pretty unconcerned with the opinions of others about himself.

At the sound of his laugh, Greg turned and smiled mischievously at him, as if he approved of the other's humour; John hoped that could mean he could actually befriend one —if not all— of the three teenagers. The other boys present looked at them with animosity, specially Phillip Anderson, who was sporting a nasty grimace at the fact of having to spend his afternoon around _'villain kids'_. The blue-eyed boy ignored him and kept smiling amusedly. The second note of the whistle brought them out of their laughing and into running to the field with helmets and lances, ready to be in joust position.

The game started and after a few minutes the blonde noticed the other man was clearly lost as to the role he was supposed to be playing; so the next time he ran past him on the left field he yelled _'ball to the net!'_ and gestured to where he had to shoot. Greg seemed to pick it up fairly quickly and was soon rushing and dashing through the other players so violently some of them even had stood back once they saw him approach. It was obvious Lestrade was winging it, not really knowing the ins and outs of the game, but such fearlessness and speed could come in handy when they competed against other schools of the kingdom.

After three —illegally-scored— hits by his team, and ninety five minutes of game, Lestrade was beaming with victory and some of the players were sporting a few new bruises. But all in all, it was a successful practice and the expression Adam —the coach— was giving them proved he believed it too.

"Get over here!" He yelled at Lestrade and the teenager jogged to them. "What do you call that?" The tall man asked tersely. Greg just shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I call that raw talent." The coach finished, congratulating him with a manly pat on his back. "Welcome to the team, son."

The boy still wearing his leather gloves shook the trainer's hand, while in the distance John could hear Anderson complaining about the unfairness of someone making the team just because he was a _'mindless brute',_ of course the prince didn't care for that description but decided against saying anything and ruining the first triumph he got to witness from his guests —Lady Hudson had already told him about how wonderfully they were doing with their goodness classes— so, he stayed quiet.

"I could really use a tough guy like you." Adam said. "The team is a bunch of princes, if you know what I mean." He raised an eyebrow, to which Lestrade laughed and nodded in agreement.

"I know, they're all _'after you, old chum' 'no, pardon me'_." The other answered in a mocking voice, rolling his eyes and grinning.

"Oy!" John complained, yet there was a high level of amusement on his tone. He scratched the top of his messy and disheveled golden hair as he watched the exchange before him.

"Where I'm from is 'prepare to die, fucker!" Greg explained bunching up his uniform sleeves as if he were preparing to _'rough up'_ someone. The coach was clearly delighted by the strong nature of his new player; John figured channeling that energy would be quite in their favour.

"We need to explain to you the meaning of a 'team'." Adam said, scavenging all the balls on the _'safe zone'_ of the field and placing them inside a net.

The blonde boy knew that there was no need to hang back, Lestrade obviously had the situation way under control, but he found himself saying: "I'll work with him, coach!" To which the older man just nodded and praised and excused himself sporting the biggest grin he had seen him display since they won the tournament two sun-cycles ago.

Once the coach had left and the two teenagers were walking to the changing lockers, the prince started talking, figuring now was as good time as any to not only explain the game's mechanics to its newest member, but also to have a chat with him. Aside from the fact that their rebel behaviour was like a refreshing glass of ice water to the realm's hot, demanding, boring, routinely desert, these kids were his responsibility now, and he had to teach them that there were other —better— ways of living than just stealing and causing fires. "A team is like a family." He explained truthfully.

"You don't want to be at my house for dinner." The other answered, not getting the point at all. The island's inhabitants must be worse than he thought if the basic concept of camaraderie was so outlandish to them.

"No, I mean like the different parts of the body." He explained patting his arms and knees. He thought he should feel silly doing something like that, but these kids needed all the help they could get. "That is what a team is, different players working together to win."

Lestrade seemed to contemplate this, mulling over the concept before turning around and arching an eyebrow at him. "Can I be the fist?" He asked, as he halted. A wicked stance as the prince retraced his steps.

"Ha!" John laughed. "Sure." He answered and started to walk again towards the locker, hiking up the strap of his changing bag. "You've never played a team sport before." He stated, not really needing affirmation of that reality, he just felt it was immensely impactful the fact that something so vital to him could be so alien to someone else. He sat on the bench in front of the metal door with his number on it —the 14 on bold brick letters staring back at him.

"Nah," The rebel waved a hand in dismissal. "On the island is every man for himself." Lestrade described, placing his things over a bench and rummaging around his own bag for a towel.

The kid was his age, yet as he spoke that, he seemed several sun-cycles older, —the fact the he towered over John, just like almost everyone else did, didn't help either— John stayed seated on that bench long after his new teammate had gone off to shower and most of the other kids had left the building. He vowed he would make sure things were different for them there.

* * *

A row of student lockers is lined up at the side of the building, attached to a hallway with a rail on the other side, over-looking a garden with picnic tables and several trees surrounding them. At the far side of said hall there were Sherlock and Irene, talking and laughing about who knows what, John couldn't help staring as the both of them took books out of their places.

"Those kids are trouble." He heard Sally's voice to his left. She was crossing her arms over her mint green dress, standing much too close to Phillip Anderson for comfort, who seemed to agree to her statement quite wholeheartedly. At the distance, Irene bid her friend goodbye and left his side, leaving the violet-haired boy alone.

"Oh, come on." John bemoaned, tired of his friends being judgmental just because of where they were from. "You should give them a chance." He said, remembering how much of a good time it had been playing Tourney with Lestrade earlier.

"No offense, John." Said Mary to his right, using that soft tone that made the prince exasperated lately, "You're just too trusting." She declared, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him around and away, far from where the boy could hear them. "Look," She states, pushing a strand of her soft blonde hair behind her ear. "I know your mum fell in love with a beast who turned out to be a prince. But with my mum, The Evil Fairy was just an evil fairy." The princess expressed, the other two people present nodding along as if encouraging him to listen. "That boy's mother." She gestured to where Sherlock was stuffing a dubiously looking chemistry set inside his locker, the door of which was decorated —vandalised would be a better description— with several holes, the origin of which John didn't dare to question, and a smiling face sprayed in bright yellow.

"I think you're wrong about them." John answered, not just to his girlfriend but to the others as well. "Listen, Mary…" He started saying, but the presence of their two friends deterred him. He sighed, and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, figuring it was best to talk with her when in private. Turning around to escape the usual onslaught of arguments on why his idea had been the worst anyone could have ever had. "I'll see you later," He threw back to Mary as he approached the other boy; now watching the scene with amused eyes. "Hey," John greeted, although he felt the effect fell flat now that Sherlock knew he had seen him practically running away from his friends.

"Hello." The boy answered, turning around to pay attention to his beakers once more; the beakers that were suspiciously identical to the ones from the school lab, the same ones you are not supposed to take back to your room or anywhere outside of said lab.

"How was your first day?" John asked, an innocent grin over his expression. He was completely aware of what was happening, but perhaps he needed to take everything one step at a time. He leaned back on the lockers next to the boy and smiled, he knew he shouldn't trust him so easily, but the kids from the Isle were alright and despite having few interactions with him, Sherlock's acerbic personality was his favourite.

"Super." Sherlock answered in what seemed to the prince a highly sarcastic tone. The blonde believed he was never going to understand what was going on with this boy; whether if he was just playing him, or if he genuinely was that moody and rude; or both at the same time. He supposed he would just have to know him better to be able to tell.

"You know," He starts, motioning to the inside of the boy's locker. Sherlock's grey eyes pierced through his in intensity, as if he were trying to figure something out. "The labs are open from 7 in the morning to 11 pm, you should really think about returning those beakers where they belong and just experiment there," John commented. "What do you think?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but shut it closed when someone walked by them, the figure of the prince' friend Molly quickly walking away from them as if she were afraid of the violet-haired boy. _'Not you too, Molly,'_ John thought.

Once she was out of sight, Sherlock spoke, "I think:" He started, a teasing smirk radiating all over his pale face. "Way to take all the fun out of it." He said, just before he closed his locker door, swiftly turning around and walking away.

* * *

The girl's loo was not a place in which Sherlock could say he had ever found himself before, but he had never had a real reason to walk that uncrossed line. Upon entering, he saw his target, washing her hands in a frantic movement and clearly impatient to get away from the restroom before someone else entered. _'Too late'_ thought Sherlock.

"It's Molly, right?" He asked, his deep voice resonating on the powder yellow tiled walls. Did everything in the kingdom just had to be some shade of pastel colour? Have darker shades never been introduced to these stumbling humans?

The girl jumped in surprise; apparently terrified of not only having to confront another person, but seeing as he was a man, and one of _'the villains'_ it had her taking a step back. "You can't be here." She stated dumbly, as if the boy didn't know how to differentiate between signs on loo doors.

Sherlock ignored her fear and pressed on, yet he made sure to soften his facial features and open up his stance to seem less threatening. "I just-" He started, a hint of hesitation on his tone. "I noticed your hair." He commented gesturing the rose-coloured roots peeking from the dull brunette hair bunched up on her head. The tell-take mark of someone with enchanting blood. It was practically impossible to replicate the sort of shimmer magic gave to any physical attribute of the owner.

Molly was startled, trying to quickly stuff her things in her bag and nervously running her fingers through the strands that fell from her high, slick ponytail. "Um," She mumbled. "It's not-"

"It's fine." Sherlock hastened to reassure her, it would not do for her to think he was antagonising her for it; or maybe planning to exploit said fact in any way —which he very well was, but she did not need to know about that. Once the girl stopped looking as if she was going to bolt out of there in a split second, he continued. "Purple hair." He gestured to his ridiculously violet curls wildly looping atop his skull. "Why hide it?" He asked.

The girl scratched her arm in apprehension, an obviously uncomfortable subject for her. "Mum says it's too different." She explained. "And we don't really use magic any more." Her sad smile was letting him know he was making real progress.

"Lady Hudson is your grandmother." The rebel stated, his sharp eyes raking over her frame, sussing out every nuance he could. "Surely they wouldn't mind. Your friends…" Sherlock trailed off, giving her a chance to elaborate.

"I- I really don't," She stuttered. "I mean they don't-" Sighing in frustration and taking a breath to start her sentence again; once she was calm, she finally replied. "It draws too much attention." From what the violet-haired boy could deduce she clearly didn't have an incredible amount of friendly acquaintances. She shrugged shyly, but set her shoulders back in dismissal, in an obvious attempt to make it seem less impactful than it was for her. "But it's fine," She said. "I only need to cover the roots. I can't change it but I'm used to it."

"Wrong." Sherlock corrected, a smile already drawing on his face.

She seemed confused, specially when he steepled his hands under his chin and slowly closed his eyes. When he opened them, her expression hadn't changed, but something else had. Her hair was no longer styled back in a plain ponytail; now it cascaded around her face in soft waves with a very low side-parting which concealed most of the pink on the roots, and since it was magical she will have trouble _not_ to have it that way in the future. Everything else aside —compared to her previous atrocity— Sherlock believed he inadvertently did the world a favour.

"What-" She exclaimed touching her hair, then swiftly turning around to asses herself in the mirror. "How did you-" She questioned, a mixture between elated and bewildered. Barely able to take her eyes off the solution to her problem he had so readily provided.

Sherlock showed her his spell book, considering it safe for a girl like her to know he had it, she wouldn't really tell anyone. "This way at least it's less visible." He offered as an excuse to mask the true intention of helping her. "And you almost don't notice your…other features anymore either." He commented, making an effort to maintain the friendl(ier) expression on his own attributes.

Suddenly excited, Molly turned around and looked at him with eyes full of expectation and new found regard. "Can you make it turn brown?" She asked.

"I'm afraid not." Sherlock offered with a pained face, stuffing his hands on his coat to appear embarrassed. "I've practiced but those methods are still very advanced." He saw the disappointment flood her posture and decided it was the perfect time for attack. "But your grandmother!" He exclaimed as if he had just thought of the best idea. "With a wave of her wand you would never have to worry about colouring again!"

"She doesn't use the wand anymore," Molly admitted, still subtly looking at her head on the reflection. "She believes real magic is in knowledge and friendship."

 _'Moron,'_ The boy muttered under his breath, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom. "Just, I understand she used magic on that ratty princess, yes?" He clarified, only waiting for the other to nod before moving on. "And she wasn't even family. Doesn't she love you?"

Molly opened her big eyes in surprise and stammered a response. Something along the lines of _'what matters is on the inside'_ or some other lark like that. To which the silver-eyed boy just said: "Exactly."

She looked confused, not really following why he agreed with that. "What-" She started asking, but if the boy had to endure some more few days in this realm he figured he had to make it a habit to cut people off before they filled his head and time with more stupid questions.

"No," He interrupted her. "That's the face," He stated, imitating her big sad eyes and bottom lip pout. "Just look as if you heart were about to break and she'll do whatever you want." Sherlock explained.

"She will?" Molly looked confused, but the glint of hope in her eyes gave the boy every confidence that she was definitely going to listen to him; he had her.

"Yes, I mean that princess did it and worked, correct? She just magic her into everything she wanted." He shrugged and took a step towards her, trying to encourage her to buy into what he was saying. "And if she, you know, breaks out the old wand, invite me." He finished.

Molly smiled and nodded, turning back to grab her bag and watching him as if he had hanged the stars himself. "I will," She said. "Thank you so much." The girl beamed and ran out of the room in excitement, leaving Sherlock alone there, in the Ladies Room.

He stuffed his spell-book back in the inside pocket of his coat and slightly adjusted his dark curls; then turned around and left behind the smirking reflection of his face on the mirror.

* * *

Chemistry classes came as a divine relief for Sherlock. It's not as if he hadn't covered all the course material already, but the chance to work with chemicals again calmed the storm inside his mind. He found thoughts of his elaborate plan and having to adjust living on a place where everything was simultaneously new and stupid had him needing something to occupy his racing mind.

Next to him, Irene was scrawling something on her notebook but completely ignoring the lesson and the teacher; the boy didn't blame her, he was clearly not qualified to give this course. The fact that they have to share the lesson with Phillip Anderson didn't seem to help either.

"He _is_ in line for a throne." He heard Irene said next to him, as if considering his worth —which in Sherlock opinion wasn't much.

"Ugh, Irene." He exclaimed quietly, a disgusted curl to his lips. He knew exactly what the other was thinking about. "Don't tell me you're actually listening to your mother." He said.

The Woman shrugged one shoulder and regarded her target, not turning around to see the disapproval on her friend's face. "Perhaps I could come to like him?" She offered, placing her chin on her hand and pursed her mouth in dissatisfaction as Anderson was attempting to balance a pencil on his fist like the moron he was.

"No, you couldn't." The violet-haired boy insisted, not really seeing how that could end up well for her. Physically shivering from repulsion at imagining a lifetime full of _that_. "First, he has the personality of a dead fish, and the face to match." He said, as the teacher kept droning on about some periodic table facts — _incorrect_ periodic table facts that is— and the rest of the students seemed to be interested in anything but the lesson. "And second," Sherlock continued. "You are a lesbian."

"I know." Irene sighed in defeat, "But still, he has a _castle_." She complained, completely put out from the fact that the way to get what she wanted was so unpleasant, Sherlock believed she wasted her time since they were set to take over the world in a few weeks; so obtaining a castle or something similar would definitely not be a problem then. But still, he figured her delusions were not of his business. "And you know I'd make an exception for you, though." She turned to him and winked lewdly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered flatly. Not at all impressed or surprised by those sort of delusions; it's not as if she hadn't offered before. "You've mentioned." His disinterested face probably spoke for him about how appealing that sounded.

"Or for the dishy Prince John." She added with a grin that spelled trouble. The boy genuinely had not expected the _king-to-be_ to be part of the conversation; he scratched his arm, suddenly uncomfortable. He failed to determine the reason for such sensation; thankfully, he was saved from having to answer when the teacher clearly had enough of their hushed conversation.

"Miss Adler, perhaps this is just review for you." He said, placing his hands on his hips in an obvious effort to make himself seem intimidating. "So, tell me, what is the average atomic weight of silver?" He asked, to which Irene turned to Sherlock with panic in her eyes; but before the violet-haired boy could assist her she had been ushered to the front and told to write it on the board.

There was an easy way out of the situation, but they weren't supposed to cause any sort of trouble until the wand was in his hands, and the kingdom right where he wanted it —arson would probably be labeled as 'evil' anyway—. He assumed he could just stand back and watch her make an idiot of herself, but he found he was unable to keep quiet when the solution was so… accessible. Sighing, he brought his hand up and simulated as if he were looking at his reflection, once Irene caught the meaning she smiled gratefully and discreetly took her magical mirror out of the pocket of her skirt. After just few seconds, she was correctly scrawling the answer on the board, and turning around to a room full of surprised faces.

"I forget," The teacher commented. "Always a mistake to underestimate-" He started, but was cut off when The Woman caught his intention.

"A villain?" Irene completed, smirking and walking towards him. "Don't make it again." She said as she placed the chalk on his hands before walking back to her seat. She smirked at Sherlock and sat back down, just in time to watch the boy roll his eyes at her again.

* * *

Perhaps Sherlock had miscalculated with forming a casual acquaintance with Molly Hooper; now she was perched up on the desk chair at his and Lestrade's room, going on and on about her parents and her grandmother and her cats. To top it all off, there was no real gain from the endless one-sided conversation, not when the brunette had already told her the results from his carefully planned scheme.

"My grandmother said that I should learn to fix my problems with hard work instead of trying to get her to use magic to do it." She explained, for the thirteenth time that hour. The boy failed to know what was worse, the fact that he was basically back on square one with the wand, or that this useless information was being piled on over him; can't someone just attempt world domination without wanting to fling yourself from the window anymore? Villains before his time definitely had it easier when putting a whole kingdom to sleep was possible, now he had to work with the scraps of magic the War of the Light had left behind against humans —or not completely, since Molly was merged-blood— literally too stupid to be manipulated.

He sighed in boredom from the sprawled position he displayed over his bed, but straightened up when Irene looked at him in warning across the room. What could possibly be the point? It's not like Molly would ever be brave enough —or determined enough—to try again. "What world does she live in?" She went on, uncharacteristically complaining and tugging her new hair in dissatisfaction.

"Auradon?" He asked sarcastically; he had had quite enough of the realm and its philosophy for the day. Turning back to his Spell Book and letting Irene deal with their unwanted guest.

"Well," The Woman started, watching her reflection on the full length mirror at the inside of their wardrobe. Admiring the way her very short midnight blue dress fitted her figure. "It has its perks." She commented. Making Molly smile with delight.

"Like Anderson?" Sherlock couldn't really help the disgusted note out of his tone as he voiced his question; for him, gaining wealth wasn't worth spending one more second around Philip Anderson than necessary, his secret paramour was no better either.

"Prince Philip?" The brunette perked up at the mention of his name, it looked like she was also deluded into thinking someone like Anderson had anything worthwhile to contribute to anyone's life. Sherlock clutched the book closer in exasperation and attempted to will himself out of the room, to a quiet place where he could plot without distraction.

"Oh, yes." Irene answered, a mischievous smile forming on her lips. Perhaps Molly wasn't aware of the real reason why the girl wanted to make an intimate acquaintance of him, but he did, and that fact at least lowered the disappointed image he had placed on Irene ever since she decided to follow her mother's advice.

"Is he your boyfriend?" The brunette asked dumbly, completely oblivious to the atmosphere in the room. "How exciting!" She exclaimed, standing up from her seat and looking at Irene as if she were incredibly lucky for snatching herself the catch that was Philip fucking Anderson. What a dreadful subject of conversation it was!

"Tedious." He couldn't help but utter, bunching up the sleeves to his crisp plum shirt as if that would help him concentrate all the more.

"And how would you know?" Teased Irene, pausing a second from her self-lusting at the other side of the room to stare at him expectantly, as if he had time to waste on such notions.

"Romantic entanglement is a waste of time," He recited, completely drained of having to repeat the same line every time the subject came up. "Time I can better spend planning-" But he stopped himself. Unknowingly —for her— using Molly for their own gain was one thing, but it was a completely different one to allow her to know they were planning something. She may be oblivious and easily manipulated but, unlike almost everyone on the kingdom, she wasn't a completely stupid person and would be able to put two and two together, and if she told John… Sherlock couldn't let that happen. "My experiments." He finished, and Molly didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Oh, I forgot!" Irene exclaimed, grimacing and looking at her watch as if it had personally offended her. "I was supposed to meet Anderson at the bleachers after chemistry." She elaborated, to which Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"And that is exactly what I mean." He said in a hushed voice and tugged at his violet curls in frustration. In that exact moment, there was an incessant knocking on the door that kept going right until Irene answered it. A girl with long black hair and angular face entered the room, introducing herself as 'Janine' and standing confidently on the middle of the room.

"Daughter of The Warrior Princess." Sherlock completed for her, to the astonishment of almost everyone present —Irene was already used to his deductions by now. The new girl just beamed and nodded, not at all phased about being recognised that easily by someone who she hadn't met before.

"Yes, that's me." She affirmed, placing one hand on her hip as if that were in itself an incredibly huge achievement.

"Boring." He replied, raking his gray eyes over her stance and not feeling impressed at all. Irene kept watching him with an amused expression, knowing exactly how enjoyable he was finding the evening.

"Sorry?" Janine asked in half-mock, her smile showing her true feelings about the situation. At the other end of the room, Molly watched on with blatant fascination, the violet haired boy was not sure why she was still there, but he supposed making her go away now that she was of no use to him would be considered 'rude' and he had to thread lightly until he could blow his cover. The only way he could stand this monotony was thinking of what he would gain once he got the wand in his grasp.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared to let the dam break, smirking slightly at his own ability. "You want my help." He stated first, which was no news to anyone. "I know you're having relationship problems, and you want to find out whether your prince is cheating on you with that short-haired girl who thinks she is special just because she knows the son of the Emperor and you'd like to know if you would be better off with someone else." He paused, standing up and mirroring the confident posture of his subject. "I know all that and more, what I don't know is why would I ever do that for you." Sherlock questioned.

"I'll pay you fifty coins." She offered, twinkling her purse in demonstration.

"Good answer." Irene commented and stepped forward to grab the pouch and placed it on the desk with a smile. "So Sherlock," She said, turning around to her friend in anticipation. "What do you think?" She pointed to Janine.

"I think you should find the missing part of your dress, Irene." He commented, gesturing to the exposed part of her legs with a smirk. The girl just rolled her eyes at him in annoyance and the boy chuckled.

"Oh, I should probably have warned you." She said to the other two other girls. "Sherlock thinks he is _hilarious_." The others laughed, although Sherlock wasn't sure whether they ware giggling at his joke or hers, probably agreeing with The woman.

"No, no no." Molly shook her head as an answered to his unvoiced question. "I've seen it." She explained, suddenly ready to defend him; all he had done is fix her poor attempts at hiding rose-coloured hair, for evil's sake! And that had been completely in his selfish interests. "He's good at people problems."

That statement puzzled the villain. "I am?" He asked, leaving his spell book on the bed and crossing his arms in confusion.

However, Irene had a different reaction. She laughed, possibly at the notion of him knowing anything about real human beings, probably at the face he made when he heard said idea. "He is?" She asked between chuckles.

"Yes!" The brunette affirmed, her eyes lighting up in excitement. "You should give relationship advice." She innocently prompted, which drew a horrified expression on the boy and more howls of laughter from the seductress.

After a few moments of feeling quite uncomfortable, the boy cleared his throat and decided that focusing on the task at hand was the best way to rid himself of the unfortunate subject. "So, potential cheating boyfriend, you said?" He queried, more as an statement than a question, there was no possible way this girl's lover had not been playing prince with at least two other princesses.

"Yes," Janine responded, completely aware of the fact that she never had said who this mysterious boyfriend was. Not that Sherlock needed a name to know practically everything about him already. "Is he?" She asked. "Cheating, I mean."

Sherlock looked at her and walked closer. "Oh, there's no question about that." He said. "The real question is what are you going to do to get back at them?" He ended and smiled a misbehaving grin.

Janine seemed to be sold on his mischievous nature as well, at least not everything was doomed to be boring here, if anything else failed, Auradon looked like it could be a perfect place to stir up trouble. "Mr. Holmes." She started. "You're going to be incredibly useful." Janine swore and smiled.

* * *

A few hours later found Sherlock bent over his desk, turning page after page of spells, trying to figure out a way to circumvent the highest security of the kingdom to get to the wand. It was no easy fit, no matter how brilliant he was; magic was still fairly new for him and its rules had changed so much since the war no one was completely sure of how it worked now that it had become outdated.

"Anderson's castle is beyond belief." Irene said, recounting her meeting with the waste of space that was her new prey. The boy understood the need to live up to one parent's expectations —be it from a madman that wasn't actually his parent— but she should have chosen someone at least bearable with which to spend her life.

"His stupidity is beyond belief." He stated, turning on the small lamp beside him as the day was quickly turning into dusk in the world outside.

"I call that making my way in the world." The girl stood up and paced around the room, a clear sign that no matter how much she said she enjoyed her new status, she was totally aware that it would make her miserable within the fortnight. Specially since it was a deal that quite specifically ruled out indulging in her most favourite activities, activities with another _woman_.

"I call that prostitution." He threw back. "How is that any different than being a dominatrix?" He inquired, genuinely baffled by the distinction between the two acts, particularly because morals were never his strong suit. He had been born blessed with dubious ethics.

Irene never answered, which the violet-haired boy took to mean she no longer wished to discuss her magical afternoon with Phillip's privileges. Sherlock was actually grateful, since now he could concentrate on what really mattered.

Sherlock needed time and silence to be able to draw an elaborate and delicate plan that could land them where they desired before he ended up ripping off all his hair in frustration; And that is exactly the moment when Lestrade decided to come bounding up into their room with heavy, banging steps and talking loudly. "Hello Ladies!" He greeted with a smirk and threw his smelly and dirty bag unto his bed. Making Sherlock groan by the odor, and the fact that —judging by the new shirt— he was, as of right now, living with an athlete. Marvellous.

He figures he must have pulled a face, since Greg was quick to comment. "Did the Hooper plan worked?" He asked dumbly. "Is she going to take you to see the crown?" He sat on his bed and started pulling off his sweaty shoes.

"Lestrade, take your stupid questions and your foul feet elsewhere." He bit back, shy from snarling his teeth at him. "I'm not in the mood." Sherlock grumbled.

The older man turned to look at Irene in question, as if to find out what had him so riled up. "He completely struck out." She explained, crossing her legs and leaning back on the love-seat she had invaded. "He's been going over every page in that book for hours." She complained. "I placed one of my circlets on his head earlier and he hasn't even noticed." She gestured, to which the other moved his head taken aback, only to watch as a silver ring of metal dropped from his curls to the floor dully.

He eyed the girl in animosity, not having time for her childish pranks. "What do you think Moriarty will do to us," He started, "To _me,_ if I go back home empty handed?" The boy asked venomously. The other two were quickly snapped out of their easygoing attitude, there was no way that could end well for anyone involved.

"Okay, fine." Lestrade relented. He grabbed a nearby chair and sat next to him ready to help figure out what the next move should be. "How can we get the bloody wand?" He thought aloud, only to have Irene placed a chagrined hand on her forehead and hesitate to talk.

"I forgot." She said, as an excuse for what she was about to say and for not having mentioned it before. "Phillip told my Lady Hudson blesses Prince John with it at the coronation that we all get to go." She revealed. "I have nothing to wear of course," The girl commented in an effort to soften the blow she knew was coming.

Sherlock eyed her as if she were the worst moron in the realm, but before he could say anything she was saved by another round of knocks on their door. Sherlock was fed up with uninvited guests and surprises for the day. He stood up quite forcibly and marched to the door ready to scream at whomever dared to disturbed his already miserable day. "What!" He said as he opened the door, but the rest of his attack died on his tongue when he realised it was John at the other side.

The prince smiled innocently and put his hands behind his back in a friendly manner, the violet-haired boy felt ready to scream from frustration for a completely different reason. "Hey, Sherlock." He said, and once he saw the other two members of his gang, he perked up and greeted them too. "Sorry, it's just I didn't see you at all today," He explained as reason for his dropping by so suddenly. "And I was wondering if you guys wanted to go somewhere or hang out…" He trailed off but never lost that optimism on his face. Sherlock didn't know whether to punch him or mirror his smile, so he settled for going right into business.

"Is it true we get to attend your coronation?" He inquired.

John grinned, ecstatic to see them taking interest in social and official activities. "Yes, the whole school goes." He answered, and stuffed his hands on the pockets of his mustard tailored trousers.

"Oh, brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, while Irene and Lestrade shared amused looks behind him. "Does that mean it's possible for us to stand in the front row next to Lady Hudson?" The boy asked, already drawing up a new plan. "Just to observe all that goodness more closely."

The blonde hesitated, it was apparent he was about to decline, yet the villain could do nothing but wait for the blow to fall and ruin his scheme. "It's really just me and my parents." He explained, hasty to placate them into not feeling left out. "My sister would have been there but she's traveling with her husband." John said, noticeably still standing outside the room, at the corridor.

A last resource occurred to Sherlock. "What about your betrothed?" He asked a bit more aggressively, although not enough to be recognisable.

John seemed confused for a minute, as if he were unfamiliar with the concept. "Who?" He asked with his light eyebrows drawn together and his lips pursed in contemplation.

"Mary," Sherlock clarified. Maybe this wouldn't exactly be an arranged couple, but the king-to-be with the daughter of the most influential royals was not a very surprising match to anyone.

"Oh, right." John replied, the smile completely gone from his face; instead replaced by a haunted and pensive look the boy failed to describe. "Yeah, she should probably be there too." He said scratching the back of his neck, yet he didn't sound completely sure. It appeared as if he hadn't thought of having her there with him, on the most important day of his life, to support him.

"You, your parents and your girlfriend." Sherlock recapitulated, nodding his head in deliberation. Maybe he could still work with that.

"Yes. I'm sorry." The prince said, the mood drastically changed from the happy-go-lucky that annoyed Sherlock and so happened to be his usual personality.

"Okay, thanks. Bye." The younger boy declared with a smile just before starting closing the door on the other's face.

"Oh, no but there's plenty-" John was unable to finish his sentence before Sherlock had left him standing there unsure of what had happened.

Inside the room, Sherlock was grinning again, and the other two looked on in anticipation. Every time he looked determined like that, everyone knew he was brewing trouble. "Irene," He said, prancing across the room and stopping at his desk once more.

"Yes, dear." She responded while the other frantically turned the pages of the Spell Book, but this time in an opposite manner than earlier. This time it was with an objective in mind.

"I'll need you to draw out everything we can about John Watson's preferences. Basically, tell me what he likes." He ordered, still looking through the papers. "You'll get your wish." Sherlock explained, "John is about to get himself his first boyfriend." He declared, his finger arriving to the exact spell he was looking for.

* * *

 **I would really love to know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 5: Cheat You Once

**Chapter 5: Cheat You Once**

 _A very common action between villains:; Cheating in the act of behaving dishonourably or unfairly in order to gain any sort of advantage for a given case. Find an easy way out of a situation by dishonest or forbidden means, and make sure to get rewarded for it._

The lights of the kingdom were already on, and John felt nights like this were unmatched; silent and calm, without a thing to disturb them. At least that was true for nature, his life was another matter altogether. He questioned how fragile something had to be in order to break so easily; or whether circumstances could change so quickly as to become something else entirely in a matter of days. Whatever the reason, he had proof now.

"The dreams are gone." He said, contemplatively. Mary, who was sitting on the bench next to him, looked at him as if he were not making any sense, as if she didn't know about the recurring nightly vision he had had for moon-cycles.

"What?" She inquired, confused by the _non sequitur_ the prince had muttered. She reached a hand to brush back a lock of blonde hair that was falling over her face.

"The dream I always had," The blue-eyed boy explained. Seeing before his open eyes the reminisces of every image his subconscious had presented to him. Of running around a run-down place which he had never visited. Having to swerve crates, and boxes of diverse dubious things; always chasing or running away, but never finding resolution, be it catching or being caught. Forever following some unknown image that he was never quite able to reach, to make it stay. Those dreams were gone, and it had been days of silent and empty nights ever since his proclamation was put into action. "About the Isle." He explained squinting his eyes to the vast darkness. The thing he found most curious about the situation is that instead of relief and satisfaction of having rid himself of distressing and confusing images, he felt completely furious that he couldn't seem to figure out where they have come from in the first place.

The girl sighed in fatigue. "John." She said, and made a mildly patronising expression. John turned his head to look at her, but he found he had no desires of hearing comprehension if it wasn't also directed at his ideals. He had no need of more talks about how he was wrong in believing he could change any part of the kingdom. The fact that he already had his doubts on his ability to rule effectively didn't not help in the slightly.

"You are not personally accountable for whatever life has thrown at them, you know?" She commented, expertly avoiding touching the subject of The War of Light which had left the realm more damaged that would be believable; few individuals knew about this and it was not a matter on which any royal liked to dwell, specially John. "You don't _have_ to do this," She continued. "They are not you responsibility."

"I do need to." John was quick to respond. Balling his fists in stubbornness. "I can't just look away when part of my people still lives like that." He declared, his blue eyes betraying how scared that thought actually made him; that he wouldn't be able to help fix everything that had gone wrong in the past.

"I mean: you have enough on your plate already without this." The princess explained, John knew she may be right in that respect, yet he failed to see how him trying to actually do his job as a king was so hard for her and some of his friends to understand. Yes, kids of the villains were at a disadvantage, but they were just that; they wouldn't rot just by proximity, they weren't apples. "I don't want to see your hopes crushed when it doesn't turn out how you want."

The prince frowned and exhaled a harsh breath, "They won't disappoint me." He assured. He didn't even know where that passionate and deep loyalty to his new acquaintances came from, but he just knew there was so much more to them than the surfaced betrayed, and he doubted that if he didn't try, anybody else would bother.

"You can't know that." Mary replied, standing up from her position and crossing her eyes in defiance. "He used magic, you know?" She said. "The Holmes boy; on Molly's hair, and Lady Hudson is not happy about it." John barely knew about that, perhaps magic was outdated —nearly forbidden— now, but he didn't see the need to condemn such inoffensive action.

"What's the harm?" He asked, yet he knew he would be met with quiet derision. And true to form, his girlfriend was giving him such an intense glance of pity for his perceived naivety.

"It starts with that, but you don't know where it will end up." She insisted, trying to reach for his hand in regard, but the prince felt betrayed that she didn't trust him enough to listen to his judgement. He knew she cared for him, yet she seemed not to be able to have confidence on his decisions. "John, this is exactly what I mean," She said after watching his expression. "You are so blinded by your expectations you are not seeing what is clearly happening here."

The blonde stood from the bench, now really hurt by the implications. "And what is that?" He asked, yet his voice was not entirely audible in the dead of the night. Even if the royal gardens were quite private, he did not wish for someone to overhear such a delicate conversation, no matter how strained their relationship had become, the regard he felt for Mary prevented him from letting her be exposed like that.

"They are using you!" She exclaimed, with little care as to whom may hear it. "Yes, they seem to be adapting perfectly to the rules, but don't you think that is a tiny bit suspicious?" She challenged, her expression showing him a sign: there would be no going back from this. "This is going to blow over, and I'm not staying around to watch it." She said, locking her blue eyes with his in a last attempt to salvage something both of them already knew was lost, maybe even long before the kids from the island arrived.

"I'm sorry, Mary." He responded. Not with anger but exhaustion. She watched him for a few moments, then nodded in admittance and turned to leave. The prince remained there long after she was gone, trying to figure out why the separation didn't make him feel sad.

* * *

Love spells were technically forbidden by both, the ancient rules and the new laws imposed after The War; good thing Sherlock was never one to adhere to or abide any sort of rules. During his lifetime, Sherlock had made a lot of strange things for the sake of getting his way, yet he never could have imagined his most wicked deed would come in the form of cookies.

After only being acquainted with the concept of pastries for a few short weeks, he found it ridiculous, if not entirely hilarious, that he was tasked with baking a batch of cookies as the magic's allocation.

"Alright," Sherlock said, finishing mixing most of the dough, desperate to be done and able to get out of the horrible apron protecting his clothes. "It says that we still need one tear," He read from his Book of Spells. "And I never cry." Looking around to his two companions, already thinking in ways in which he could insult some innocent bystander into crying —he had done it before— however, it would prove difficult seeing as is was almost midnight and way past the curfew the dorms had.

"Let's just chop some onions." Lestrade suggested, searching for his intent in every cupboard on the kitchen —where they were not allow to be, specially that late. Sherlock ran a hand through his curls and snarled in frustration.

"No." He said. "It says we need one tear of _sadness._ " He specified, jamming his finger over the line where the offending instruction was carefully written in the book. Lestrade and Irene bent closer to read it. "And this spell has the highest rate of success, so we need to follow the procedure exactly." He explained, as he pushed aside one of the stolen chemistry graduated flasks that he had used to demonstrate such aspect.

"Well, good luck finding someone to torment at this hour." Greg commented, leaning back on the table behind him and crossing his arms in waiting. Sherlock glared at him and sighed.

"I still don't understand why I can't just use my seduction skills on him." Irene argued from behind him, smiling and carefully inspecting the glassware in front of her, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Your methods usually take between thirty five to fifty two hours approximately;" The violet-haired boy said. "And tomorrow the seats for the coronation will be assigned, we need to secure the location before that." He explained, not mentioning the fact that they will probably require something stronger than just mere skills in order to make honourable Prince John Watson forsake Mary's trust so easily; He knew Irene —although very good—was not fit for that, not like magic was. But he failed to know what will The Woman do if he implied her talents were not enough, so he refrained from saying so.

"Okay," She relented, yet her gaze still trailed the table and its contents adamantly. Sherlock had never seen her so…pensive. "But why does it have to be you?" She inquired, this time turning her head to fix her eyes on him. "Isn't the fact that you are a man going to make it even more complicated?"

The boy had not considered such notion, and much less that Irene would push the issue, considering her participation would hinder her pursuit of Anderson's riches. "Because…" He began, but found he couldn't name a reason for such a decision. Before he had to come up with one, he was halted by a familiar figure at the door. "Janine?" He exclaimed, even if he normally despised obvious statements.

"Oh, there you are!" The newcomer said, entering the kitchen swiftly. "I've been looking for you all day." She explained, her smiling face was far too cheery for Sherlock to endure at the moment. "I wanted to let you know your idea was perfect. You should've seen how ridiculous they looked hiding their hairless heads." She laughed smugly, completely delighted by the services Sherlock had rendered, and that brought a strange and unexpected wave of pleasure and satisfaction inside the boy. Disappearing their hair was a bright and wicked idea, and perhaps if he got eventually bored of world domination, he could make a profession of using magic to solve all the stupid people's conundrums.

"Whoever had seen them before would think it a good improvement." Irene commented, ready to leave her thoughtful attitude behind to enjoy basking in another's demise. The three of them had shared many an afternoon like that on The Isle.

"Midnight snack, huh?" Janine asked, finally realising the activities they were carrying out. "Never took you for a baker." The girl said.

"It's simple chemistry." The boy answered, although the question made him remember the impasse they had encountered with the _'tear of sadness',_ perhaps, if he deduced brutally enough Janine would provide them with one?

"What are you making?" She asked obliviously. Ignoring completely the furtive glances between the other three present. Sherlock picked up the bowl again and made a show of mixing the dough once more. "Cookies." He answered and placed the container on the table quiet forcefully. Smiling innocently.

However, none of them expected the girl to reach out her hand and dip her finger in the mix, only to return it to her mouth and consuming what was to become their weapon of attack. "No!" The three rebels screamed in unison, worried at the implications a half completed potion could deliver.

"What?" She asked, clearly confused at their over-the-top reaction. "I'm not going to double-dip." She assured, yet the wide eyes of shock couldn't disappear from their faces.

"Do you feel anything?" Greg asked her, taking small steps toward her, waiting in case it was necessary to contain her. Seeing her confusion and continued normal behaviour, they were compelled to ask anew. "Like it might be missing something?" Irene insisted, smiling in that attractive way she had to convince her into providing any information.

"Maybe some chips?" Janine said, taking a step back from their overt staring. It was obvious she didn't have them in such low regard as almost everyone else did in the kingdom; in fact, Sherlock would dare say they had managed on securing a few unexpected allies in the short weeks they had attended Auradon Prep. "Chocolate chips," She explained, once the surprised expressions turned into those of confusion.

"And those are?" Lestrade asked, adjusting his leather gloves on his hands and turning to look at the others. The violet-haired boy could deduce it was another concept of which they had been ignorant on the island.

"Chocolate?" She insisted, turning around and searching for something on the shelves behind her. "The most important food group." She said as she placed a bag of brown, soft-looking drops on the table. It looked suspiciously similar to the treat Greg had so gracelessly devoured on their journey here. She emptied half the bag over the bowl and regard them with curiosity. After encountering only unrecognising faces she was bound to ask. "Didn't you mums ever made you chocolate chip cookies?" She started. "Like when you're feeling sad and they are fresh from the oven, and she makes you laugh and everything is better…" She trailed off when she realised they were not following. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sherlock knew what their faces must tell at the moment, how not one of them had experienced something even remotely akin to what she just described in all their life. Irene and Greg's single parents were hardly attentive, and cared for their offspring more as an asset to obtain their desires than actual children, and Sherlock didn't even have a family to speak of; just a maniac with a power-complex for a guardian and a lost brother that nobody had seen for more than thirteen cycles. —not that his mother had been even the least affectionate when she was alive. He doubted anyone on the island got to live as they did on Auradon. Everything there was business transactions and violent reluctant deals. No time, nor use, for anything else.

"It's different from where we're from." Irene explained, when she saw Sherlock was frozen in realisation. The boy had not felt so out of sorts for a long time.

"I know," Janine replied, an uncomfortable smile on her expression. "I just, I thought _'even villains love their kids'_ " She laughed nervously, perhaps as an attempt to ease the unrelenting tension on the room, yet it did nothing to wipe away the disturbed look over their frames. Her half-smile was erased and instead replaced by an expression of deep sadness, tears gathering inside her eyes in sympathy. "I'm sorry." She said, letting one teardrop roll down her cheek, only to be startled when Sherlock reached out and wiped it away with his hand. Discretely dropping it into the large mixing bowl while Janine stood there, puzzled as to what had happened.

"Yes, well. Big bummer." Sherlock smiled dismissively. "But we need to get these into the oven." He said as he walked around the kitchen table and started gently pushing her out of the room. "Thank you for coming by, glad to see the plan was to your satisfaction. Good night. Evil dreams." He recited, and before they knew it she had left with just a simple and bewildered _'goodnight'_.

The room was quiet for a few seconds, but the silence didn't last long. "Okay, cookie sheet." Sherlock said, ready to bounce back into action after such an awkward moment. "Irene, oven." He ordered, already showing his back to rummage the drawers for cutters; completely unaware of Irene's inspecting eyes still evaluating over his turned figure.

* * *

The school seemed more alive that day than any other they had experienced since they arrived. Sherlock figured it had something to do with the upcoming Tourney match of the night, followed by the official royal announcement for the coronation and its respective ball. The boy attempted to avoid any crowd of excited alumni, preferring instead to use the least traveled paths he had set himself to find once he realised their plan would take a bit more than just one night. There was only one person he wanted to run into that day, and the bag of cookies in his bag attested to that fact.

Greg leaned back on the lockers next to where Sherlock was retrieving his books, making an effort not to open the door too much, lest anyone could get a peek inside and find out how many 'borrowed' scientific equipment he had stuffed in there. "Are you feeling sort of weird about this?" Lestrade asked, running a hand through his messy hair. "I mean," He continued. "It's not so bad here, you know?" He said as he eyed the group of leaders of cheer that was passing by in front of them.

Sherlock turned around baffled, not expecting having to ponder that right now, not when their plans were so close to being true. Maybe now was not the time to question whether he actually enjoyed some aspects of their new —temporary— life. "Are you insane?" He snarled, not completely sure to whom he was talking, Lestrade or himself. "Long live evil!" He recited hushing, narrowing his eyes at the other's expression, trying to figure out if Greg really was that unsure of their resolve. "You're mean," He assured, never straying his silver gaze from his face, ready to catch and deduce any expression that might pass by it. "You're awful. You're bad news." He continued, smirking at seeing a spark of mischievous recognition mirroring his own. "Snap out of it!" He said, snapping his fingers, Lestrade smiled and sighed in relief.

"You are right," He commented. "Thanks, mate. I needed that." The taller boy commented to his friend adopting once more his though and rebel posture. Sherlock chose to ignore the fact that he would be more convinced had Lestrade refrained from using the royal's slang. ' _Close enough'_ He thought and smiled back at him.

After that, Lestrade seemed to come back alive and waved him goodbye to chase down the group of girls they saw earlier. "Hey! you're all going to the Tourney game tonight?" He asked, putting on his 'score' face, which always made Sherlock crack up and roll his eyes, he was glad he never had to resort to doing things as stupid as that. "Look out for the number eight." He heard Greg mutter in the distance, already disappearing from sight into the crowd of rushing students which always flooded the halls when it was just this side of 'late' to classes. Thankfully Sherlock was not fazed by skipping some classes or arriving after the designated time, he knew they were n't supposed to raise any suspicion, but there were things Sherlock thought were not worth doing.

He watched him go for a few more moments, still startled by the waver he had seen Lestrade experience. He was distracted enough that he didn't notice someone standing behind him and greeting him until he turned around surprised, and found himself face to face with Prince John.

* * *

John watched as Lestrade walked away and the violet-haired boy stayed behind next to his locker. So he decided to go and greet him. Once he reached him, the other seemed completely startled by his 'hello' but seemed to recover quite quickly. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but the prince had special care to thread lightly with them; not because he was afraid, but because he felt the different upbringing could result in him putting his foot in his mouth again.

Sherlock turned around and his silver eyes danced across his face, when he seemed satisfied by whatever he found there, he shifted his gaze to the space around him, as if searching for something. "Where's Mary?" He asked, yet the face he was giving him betrayed that he pretty much already knew, or at least suspected, why she wasn't there.

"Oh, we-" He started saying with a hoarse voice, but had to stop. After taking a moment to clear his throat he finally said. "We broke up." He declared, as casually as anyone could with personal matters. Still, the boy in front of him didn't judge him or question him, just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Turning once more to his locker to retrieve something.

"I just made a batch of cookies," He said, showing John the bag filled to the brim with them. "Double chocolate chip." Sherlock explained, shaking the round brown, baked pastry and the royal couldn't lie, they looked delicious.

"You bake?" The prince queried impressed. "Is there anything you can't do well?" He asked somewhat amused. To which the other just smirked and winked at him.

"Want one?" He offered and extended his arm for his to take one. "Cheer you up." He explained as his face was breaking into a wide grin. He shook the bag as if he were presenting a treat to a hungry pet.

"Oh, I-" John made a grimace, annoyed at having to turn down such an opportunity. "I've got a big game, and I never eat before games." He explained, watching the face of the other fall slightly in disappointment. "But thank you so, so much." He was quick to placate, but the damaged was done, Sherlock was half-smiling in an attempt to not make him feel bad about it. "Next time, maybe?" He suggested, absentmindedly placing a hand on the other's shoulder.

Sherlock looked at said limb as if he didn't know what it was or where it had come from. The blonde laughed and took it off with a smile. "No, yeah, I understand completely." The curly-haired boy stated, waving a dismissive hand at him. His dark coat making him look smaller than he actually was —which was almost a head taller than John, damn genetics.— "Be careful of treats offered by the kids of villains." He recited, like he had heard that a million times before, about him.

"No, no, no." He insisted, his blue eyes turning wide. He couldn't believe he had actually behaved like a right moron, again.

"I'm sure every kid in Auradon knows that." Sherlock continued, while he fidgeted with the bag. John needed to find a way to fix this, the last thing he wanted was to make him think he was scared of him, because that couldn't be further from the truth.

"No, no. That's not it. I really do-" He started saying, but was swiftly interrupted by the other shaking his head in appeasement. "No need," He said, halting with with his hand and a smirk. "I get it. You're cautious," He explained, clearly not getting it at all. "That's smart." He commented, and in any other circumstances the blonde would feel flattered by being called smart by the cleverest person he knew.

As Sherlock took a cookie saying 'well, more for me' the royal knew he had to do something. He reached for the treat and plucked it out of the other's grasp, quickly stuffing a big bite inside his mouth with a grin. "See that." He said, his speech impaired by the massive ball of food inside it. "I totally trust you." He admitted, "Totally."

Sherlock looked at him, an expression of glee and amazement painting his handsome face. "How are they?" He asked, biting his lower lip in excitement. Frankly, the cookie was like heaven in his mouth, the ingredients completely and gracefully blended together.

"They're great." John said trying to brush away the crumbs from his mouth. "Amazing." He continued, chewing delighted and closing his eyes in satisfaction. "They are chewy and, is that cinnamon?" He asked, still savoring the taste of such a rich pastry. "I love it," He admitted, his eyes still locked into the gray ones in front of him. He had never noticed how brightly they sparkled when Sherlock was happy. "I mean..The cinnamon…it's…" His train of thought seemed to have been lost, or at least derailed. He wasn't completely aware of what he was eating anymore, just that it was, "Perfect, and sweet, and gorgeous." John babbled, raking his eyes over the violet-haired's frame, goofily grinning and taking a step closer, wondering why did the sun seemed suddenly brighter? "Sherlock, have you always had galaxies in your eyes?" He inquired, genuinely curious of such attribute. _'How is it possible for someone to be so extraordinary?'_ He thought; trying to finish off the piece of delicious feast only to be stopped by Sherlock. He pouted, but eventually let him place the cookie back into the bag.

"How are you feeling, mate?" A voice said behind him, he didn't know who it was, and he didn't care if the sound was not coming from lovely Sherlock. "John?" Another, higher tone breezed by him, yet he was unaffected. Too distracted by chiseled cheekbones and high collars.

"I feel like singing you name!" He screamed, elated for having found a treasure such as him. "Sherlock! Sheeeeerlock!" He belted, ignoring the curious looks he was getting from passerby people. A leather-gloved hand covered his mouth but he could only concentrate on the nervous, amused chuckle tumbling down from Sherlock's perfect lips.

How had he gone so long without intoning his name to the wind? He will never know. He only knew he never wanted to stop.

* * *

If it weren't for the fact that attending was in his best interests, Sherlock would have skipped —better yet: avoided like the plague— the Tourney match. As it was, Irene had convinced him that no matter how well the spell seemed to have worked, it would be wise to attend the game and remind John whose name he had to write down when the front seats for the coronation were assigned. So, there he was, huddled in the bleachers under the unforgiving sun, in his too warm coat. A dark figure surrounded by a sea of gold and blue. Every sports devotee clad in the kingdom's colours, clapping and waving as the game dragged on in front of him.

He had to admit, though, for someone who wasn't used to playing as a team, Lestrade was doing quite well on the field. Brutal and relentless as he never was in anything other than stealing. Sherlock was actually a bit pleased he got to experience such a fascinating event. However, no matter how good Greg appeared to have become, he didn't hold a metaphorical candle to the beast that was John Watson at sports. The violet-haired boy was barely able to tear his eyes away from the strategic way the prince seemed to face the other team. If he ruled as he played, Sherlock doubted he would have any problem to make his kingdom prosper and maybe even take it to its golden age. Yet, that was never going to come to pass, because Sherlock would steal a wand and the magical realms would be seized by villains long before that happened. The boy sighed and settled to watch the rest of the game.

The teams were tied, but they still had plenty of time to get the advantage. And as the whistle sounded and the players spread through the field towards their positions, no one really had any fears of their school losing. _The Knights_ —yes, the school mascot was a knight, go figure— managed to get ahead fairly quickly against _The Dragons_ , and if that was not telling, Sherlock failed to know what was; even if he didn't understand what it was actually supposed to be saying. In an adrenaline-filled move, Greg managed to contribute on several of the passes, dancing smugly at the other team players when they resulted on scoring. The crowd erupting on cheers that had the rebel covering his ears in fear of losing hearing for the next week. Perhaps seating with Irene, Janine, and Molly had not been such a good idea.

At only seconds left of the game, Greg managed to cover John and the ball by picking up another player by the shirt and using him as a shield, Sherlock laughed at such display. Perhaps Lestrade _was_ suited for this, specially since every other kid in the field was mildly-to-very afraid of him. You didn't have to be a genius at deduction to notice.

In the end, they won, —obviously, the other team was filled with Andersons. fortunately their team had just the one— and the attendees cheered excited in victory. The bleachers were full with celebration and amazement; no one could really believe they had won the game thanks to someone who was supposed to be one of the biggest threats to the kingdom. If anything, no matter how pointless it all seemed to the violet-haired boy, at least Greg being a player gave them more credibility at the face of the citizens.

"What a victory!" The announcer exclaimed into the microphone from the sidelines, as every player jumped and bumped each other in triumph. "Here they come, folks." He said, motioning the students to huddle close for a few words. "The winners of the first match of the seas-"

The man started, but never got the chance to finish since Prince John snatched the microphone and yelled. "Excuse me!" He said, wearing a stupid grin on his face at the discombobulated expressions of the crowd. "Can I have your attention, please?" He asked, and every sound and chatter died down in order to listen to the royal. "There's something I'd like to share." The blonde commented searching the bleachers for a particular face. Sherlock turned to Irene in wonder, and the girl shook her head confused, both curious to watch how the scene would unfold. Cheerful laughter was coming from every corner.

"See, I met someone who rocked my world!" John yelled, and the realm seemed to rejoice with the fact, supporting the apparent joy on their leader's face. "And now all I think about is those gorgeous eyes that make me want to write poetry." He laughed, and posed as if acting out an ancient play. "And I treasure one of the beautiful strands of your hair I found earlier." He admitted, completely unaware —or uncaring— of the shame he was thrusting upon his person, the whole audience erupting in laughter. When Molly turned to look at him, Sherlock faked a smile in second-hand embarrassment.

"The cookie," Irene murmured, looking at Sherlock in understanding, unable to hide how amusing the situation was. Placing a hand over her mouth to hide the big shriek that was threatening to come out.

"I never thought it could happen to a regular bloke like me," John continued with the sparkling eyes of a lovesick fool. "But now look what you've done to me, I'm down on my knees!" He said as he threw himself to the floor to kneel, displaying the motion with such passion and then sprawling down as if swooned when he caught Sherlock's gaze in the crowd.

"What the _hell_ was in that cookie!?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised at the effects the spell was causing. He knew affection was a given, but he wasn't expecting _this_. He scrunched up his nose in bewilderment, not knowing what was happening anymore, until the claps and whistles startled him from his wondering.

Irene grabbed the boy's arm and shook him in amusement, making an excited and insinuating face at him; Sherlock eyed her with a disturbed expression. The other players around John clapped him in the back and roared with laughter at the declaration. Making rude gestures and throwing lurid, teasing words at him. From the field, Lestrade gave his friends on the bleachers a thumbs up while the curly-haired boy grimaced back at him, and bit his lower lip in response.

"And this love I feel for you is completely ridiculous," The blue-eyed commented, smiling handsomely at his direction, as if he were not sorry of said fact at all. "You make me want to just dance." John's dancing skills left much to be desired, but thankfully, the prince was well loved among his subjects, so the act caused more fond amusement than actual humiliation. He shook his arms and moved his hips clad in the blue uniform, to which Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle.

"I need to know what to do to make you be mine." He continued, placing a hand over his heart and closing his eyes to sigh longingly. "And if your heart is not in it I don't know what I will do." Sherlock felt an unfamiliar pang of shame inside his own chest at that, yet it was out-shined by John attempting —and failing completely— to do a front flip and landing on his bum with a big smile. Sherlock actually let a yelp slip past his lips and was unable to fight the faint laughter starting to erupt from his insides. If John needed to stage his cheesy love confession why did he just had to do it in such a public, and fearless, and just _ridiculous_ way that Sherlock was incapable of hating?

By then, all present on the field and on top of the bleachers where already cheering and clapping for John and his impossible infatuation, only going wilder when the blonde decided to ungracefully take his uniform jersey off to show the one he had underneath. A total atrocity of a shirt sporting a heart with the name _'Sherlock'_ at the center of it, which was clearly hand-made in a hurry. The crowd bursting in catcalls and surprised gasps. Bisexuality wasn't a completely alien concept in Auradon, yet hearing it coming from _'ladies man John Watson'_ must be quite the revelation. The royal threw his used jersey at Sherlock, who absentmindedly caught it and was now left standing there, watching a romantic and frankly hilarious display of emotion, clutching the blue piece of cloth as if it were the only thing that made sense anymore.

Irene stared at him in obvious glee, definitely planning on teasing him about the genuine smirk she could see on his face for the rest of their lives. Beside her, Janine and Molly were screaming in excitement and looking at him as if he were the luckiest person on the planet. The violet-haired boy chose to ignore that.

John began to stalk through the crowd, climbing up the stairs on the bleachers and making his way through the spectators at the scene. Grinning goofily at everyone as if he wanted to share his immense joy of being in the rebel's presence with the whole realms. "And I will give up my kingdom for just one kiss." He declared, just as he reached Sherlock's location. He stood on the step above his and so, managed to look down at the younger boy in expectation. He leaned down to steal a kiss from the violet-haired boy's lips, yet Sherlock was quick to dodge the attempt, blocking the target with John's shirt, still safely in his grasp. "I love you, Sherlock. Did I mention that?" John finished, intensely looking at the other's kaleidoscope eyes and wrapping his free arm around the boy's shoulders.

"Sherlock, will you do me the honour of accompanying me to my coronation?" The blond asked, and the whole audience chanted a string of _'yes! yes!'_. Sherlock wondered how they were so on board with the plan when just mere hours prior most of them had been so turned off by their mere presence on the kingdom, specially since the prince's desires didn't lie within their normal heteronormative societal rules. The boy would never cease to hate the double standard that was predominant on that country. The only three people who didn't look amused in the slightly were Donovan and Anderson —who had grown annoyed and bored at watching, and were currently snogging behind the benches— and Mary, who was eyeing Sherlock with such animosity that it only made the next words he spoke all the more satisfying.

"Of course I will!" They younger man accepted into the mic, only to fear for his hearing abilities for the second time that afternoon after the screamed it caused.

"He said yes!" John cheered, staring at him with a devotion Sherlock started to feel he didn't deserve. Greg seemed to sense the hesitancy on his friend's movements and grabbed John to drag him away and down the steps to rejoin his teammates, with an excuse of them being waiting for the celebratory rituals for their win.

After the prince was gone, the voices around him seemed to muffle out, Sherlock just stared at the garment in his grasp; unable to completely comprehend what had just happened. Only the look on Irene's face brought him back to focus, aiding him in concentrating in something other than the odd sensation inside his stomach. The girl glared at Anderson, clearly feeling betrayed by the fact that not only did Sally signified she wouldn't be able to fulfill her mother's wishes, but additionally because it also meant her seduction powers —which never failed— hadn't been enough to keep him interested. Perhaps these people were too stupid, or too unassumingly dangerous, to be worked with. Perhaps they just weren't cut out for a world such as this.

"Ugh," Sherlock uttered, curling his lips in aversion. "If I were capable of feeling an emotion other than disgust for Sally Donovan it would be pity." He commented, to which The Woman averted her eyes from their figures and turned to look at him in confusion.

"Why?" She asked, twirling an indigo strand of her perfectly styled hair as she always did when she was upset. Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"Because if she were smart or attractive she wouldn't need to shack up with a moron like him." He explained, carefully arranging John's shirt to fit inside his pocket, trying to pass the comment as no big deal. "Trust me, any girl is better off without him." He ended, and the expression Irene gave him had no rival. His friend smiled at him in gratitude and arranged her shoulders back into her usual confident stance.

"Yes, I believe you're right." She agreed, taking the other's arm as they both turned to watch Greg cheer and celebrate with the team. The three of them with a pleased smile upon their faces which they never expected to portray.

* * *

Author's note: I would really love to know if you liked this one.


	7. Chapter 6: Arson In Continuity

**Chapter 6: Arson In Continuity**

 _As a crime of intentionally and maliciously setting fire to property with the intent to cause damage or enjoy said fact, arson has been around for centuries and it involves someone deliberately burning someone else's property, or even their own to gain some other good in return._

A magic mirror is not exactly a fix-it for everything in life, specially since it has a limited range of uses; such is the reason why powerful magicians and fairies never bother with them when there are several other ways to channel their magic. They do not need to 'steal' it from any kind of source, they already have it inside of their bodies; it's a part of them. Any sort of person with a drop of magic in their blood was able to use a mirror, yet for people with lesser magic abilities it was one of the few objects they were able to control with varying degrees of success. For someone like Sherlock, gifted with such a high rate of enchantment in his blood —displayed by the bright, extreme, and not at all usual violet-colored hair— a mirror would pale in comparison with all the conjuring he could make on his own. However, Irene was barely gifted, and the only power she really possessed was the ability of using mildly-enchanted items, so it was logical for Sherlock when she seemed distressed at misplacing said artifact in the middle of a chemistry test.

"Shit!" She murmured, frantically searching through her purse for the discordant item. Losing her desire to be discreet in the silence of the classroom as the time went on and the height of her desperation rose. Sherlock chose to look at the scene two seats down from his; seeing as he had finished his test nearly ten minutes after they had been handed out.

"Looking for something, Miss Adler?" The teacher said, showing in his hand the very mirror The Woman was so furiously trying to locate. The rest of the class gasping in alarm. The boy rolled his eyes at such reaction. "Thank you, Anderson." The man, MR. Hope, said placing a hand on said student's shoulder in obvious approval. Philip smiled smugly at them, clearly elated he had found a way to gain the upper hand over them, Sherlock matched Irene's glare. "It's gratifying to see some students still respect the code of honour." The professor stated.

Every other kid in the class looked on in disapproval, as if depicting their long lasting prophetic sentiment towards them. _'You were cheering for us just yesterday, you bigoted idiots.'_ Sherlock thought bitterly, entirely fed up with the community of self-righteous royals. "I will be delivering my recommendation for your expulsion." He commented, attempting really hard to maintain an impartial expression, yet Sherlock could see past it. He was clearly satisfied with the situation. He never liked them from the start and this was playing out exactly to his wishes to see them gone, wishes he wasn't supposed to have as a teacher.

Irene looked locked in place, stuck between loathe directed at Anderson and outrage at their teacher. Her perfect manicure digging into her palms and her breathing ragged visibly. "Mr, Hope," She started. "I wasn't going to-" She argued, ready to make her case, yet the man didn't even let her finish.

"You were right, I never should've underestimated the kid of a villain." He said, placing his hands over his hips, while Anderson was still smirking on the background. "It was only a matter of time." The teacher muttered under his breath, not wanting the other students to hear it, but Sherlock had, and he didn't like it one bit. He could admit of being an absolute disgrace in several aspects, —he even preferred it that way— but this he wouldn't tolerate.

"No." Sherlock said from his seat, unfolding his legs from the desk and standing up. The expression on Mr. Hope was one of surprise and a hint of rage. _'Not very accustomed to being questioned, then.'_ Sherlock thought. Idiots in this school too stupid to do it, probably thought that is what smart looked like.

"Excuse me?" The man asked, his gaze turning an alarming form of threatening, yet Sherlock was not impressed, he had had Moriarty as his mentor and guardian for cycles, and no petty ordinary human will ever compare to how much of a snake Jim could be when enraged.

"I said: no." Sherlock started. "The exam is almost over and she clearly didn't have it with her, so she can't have been cheating, now could she?" The boy stated, his tone dripping condescendence; he crossed his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow in defiance. Irene looked on bewildered, her friend had always been ruthless, but lately he did things like this with a new passion that she had never seen before. "Is this the height of intellect the school is used to when its teachers are concerned?" Sherlock asked, his vicious smile cutting through the air quickly.

"You can't talk to me like that, Holmes!" Hope said, raising his voice and balling his hands into fists. The color on his face was quickly becoming flushed. "I should have you expelled too." He declared, to which Anderson let out a triumphant laugh, but Sherlock was not going to let them have what they wanted. He would remain in the kingdom and their lives as much as he wanted; be it for however long it took to get the wand, or even longer, just to spite them. He, as always, had multiple tricks up his sleeve that these morons would never even begin to see coming.

"Then you would have to explain to Prince John why you were so quick to draw this conclusion and placed blame on her for something she wasn't even doing just because of where we're from." He stated, standing completely and confidently still in the face of his threat. Ignoring everyone staring at the altercation with equal amounts of interest and apprehension, their tests forgotten on their desks. "I don't think that will look good for you." Sherlock said while cocking his head and bending the upper part of his body forward in a predatory motion. The boy could read on him that approval from his superiors —plus the possible compromise of his job an inquiry such as that could entail— would prove to be an effective attack strategy. "Do you?" He asked, his smirk extending over his face, as he stopped to stare at Philip too. He had them. No matter how much they may hate him, they would not risk a hearing with the next in line for the throne. In this situation they were as helpless as anyone in the Island had been for so many cycles, ever since The War stripped their right to actually choose for themselves away from them. Sherlock considered this an odd sense of justice.

The teacher held his ground for a few more seconds, but it was no use, the violet-haired boy had backed him into a metaphorical corner from which he wouldn't get out without any sort of consequence. "Fine," He sighed after what Sherlock could deduce was a quite difficult pondering, setting his shoulders down and evading eye contact. "If she can pass this test I'll return your property and let the matter drop." He ran his hand through his short, greasy hair and waved a hand at Irene in dismissal.

Irene turned to him with a grateful and pleased smile, sitting down smugly and set on reaping the benefits of what her companion had just done. Sherlock, for his part, let go of his dangerous posture, and adopted instead an inoffensive and relaxed stance. "Most smart, Mr. Hope." He commented, smiling innocently at both, the man and his idiot student, before taking his leave of the classroom and letting the bang of the door closing behind him echo through the hallway.

* * *

"I passed, so he had to give the mirror back." She said, walking through the gardens smugly and laughing at the memory of all their classmates' shocked faces. She hadn't had so much fun in a long time. Lestrade, who walked next to her, chuckled too, delighted at the situation. "That's brilliant." He commented.

"Turns out I'm not just attractive." The Woman commented, flipping her hair back and casually clutched the cup of blended coffee in celebration. "I actually like it," She admitted, watching as Greg struggled with his big bag of Tourney garments. "Brainy is the new sexy." She said as they were approaching their usual table at the picnic location.

When they arrived, Sherlock was already there. Looking anxious and completely on edge, ready to bite anyone's head off if provoked. "I can't believed you stopped for coffee!" He exclaimed in outrage, even before actually sighting the cup on her hand. He wondered why the two teens always had to be so very pedestrian when there was a crisis to advert. "You were supposed to be here half an hour ago!" He sulked, slouching down on the bench while the two arrivals sat across him, in a way that was only missing a storming, thundering cloud above his figure.

"Okay, who pissed on your cornflakes?" Greg uttered, seeming not at all fazed by the potentially disastrous news he could be about to give them; when he turned to Irene for support he found her sipping at her drink with the same indifference he was trying to prevent.

"Yes," The girl commented. "I thought you would be ecstatic after yesterday." She said, as Lestrade nodded his head in agreement, they really could be complete idiots when Sherlock needed them to be smart. The boy sighed and glared, crossing his arms in stubbornness. "You hadn't had such a good dressing down in a long while." She offered.

"John just asked me out on…" He started, but had some trouble getting the next words out, sounding so outlandish and ridiculous inside his head, let alone how they would seem out in the open. "…a date." He finally managed to choke out, a deep grimace on his face. Clamping his mouth closed after the information was out; as if he refused to speak ever again after that ordeal.

Lestrade bursted out laughing, almost falling off his seat in amusement. Sherlock's cutting glare could have killed him, except he still needed him for this plan. "Oh piss off, Lestrade!" He snarled, to which the other just laughed harder, gripping his sides and wiping away tears from his eyes. Wasn't it humiliation enough that he was going to do this?

"So you're going on a date with dishy Prince Watson?" Irene asked, eagerly engaging her body forward in interest. Raking her evaluating sight over his features. Sherlock struggled to just keep the frown on his face instead of the nauseous expression thinking about said date gave him. Not because for any disgust against John, but because the situation was escalating to a degree that he hadn't anticipated, and where the boy was becoming less and less able to ignore. Things were going to unravel, up to the point where ending in complete devastation would be the only option one way or the other. The fact that he didn't have the first clue of how to behave on a date was of no assistance whatsoever.

"Yes," He said. Pursing his lips at the notion. "It's not like I can say no this close to the coronation." He justified, yet his crossed arms and closed off posture did nothing to hide how out of his element he was feeling. Thankfully, neither Lestrade nor Irene commented on the fact; he felt he wouldn't have been able to handle their questions on the reason why he suddenly felt so hesitant about the plan he, himself, had devised.

"Oh, you fool." The Woman said, standing up from his seat and clearly already thinking on strategies to suit him for the event. At the smirk on her face, Sherlock asked himself if it had truly been such a great idea to ask someone so invested in matters of romantic and sexual entanglement such as her to help him with this. Well, there was no backing down now, and he supposed he needed all the help he could get, however overbearing it could be. Customs on the island were already different enough as it was, not to mention that _'matters of the heart'_ never went past casual lust or business. "Don't worry, we can handle this." She assured him, already dragging him away to his room to chose his outfit. "We'll need your best shirt and tightest trousers." She stated.

* * *

"Oy!" Sherlock exclaimed, squirming inside his clothes, placing a hand over his hips. "What have you done with these?" He asked Irene, who was busy buttoning up his aubergine shirt. "I can barely sit." He commented, as she directed him to his bed so she could arrange the violet curls atop of his head.

"It's called _'fitting'_." She responded, smiling as the other let out a yelp and glared at her for her rough combing.

"Yes, I know that," He answered acerbically, batting away her hands to stubbornly style the ringlets on his own. "But I need to seem attractive, not scare him away." Sherlock explained, a big knot forming inside his stomach, and if his shirt weren't already too tight to breathe he figured he would have difficulty doing that too. "Not that I actually could." He sighed, he was under no delusions why John had suddenly thought a date with him was a good idea. Whether he looked attractive or not had no real impact on how this will play out. Love spells were told to be quite strong, yet Sherlock felt confused at why securing his seat at the coronation didn't feel as satisfying as he had anticipated at first.

"Shut up! Your arse looks great on these." The Woman said, dragging him out from his absorption. "It must run in the family." She commented, referring to his mother, who was famed for having strange, mesmerising beauty. Irene and her mother put a lot of value on such things, but Sherlock… Sherlock just wanted to be left alone.

"I don't have a family." He muttered, because it was true, and his time out of the island was making him even more aware of the fact. His schemes and deeds were everything for him, because without them, there was nothing else for him into which he could fall.

"Well, now you do." The girl in front of him surprised him, leaving him blinking in confusion. She smiled and shrugged. "We're going to need all the family we can get if we don't pull this off." She explained, referring to the hell that was awaiting for them at home if they failed. "My mother's not a barrel of laughs when she doesn't get her way." The violet-haired boy chuckled, understanding the emotion completely. "Just ask the girl she poisoned with an apple." Joked The Woman, which was very true, yet Sherlock doubted her mother would go that far with Irene, but that didn't seem to soften the scared shadow passing over her features.

"You're afraid of her." The boy stated, the tells all over her figure. His silver gaze collecting clues from her as they did for any other person along the day. What he found there was not exactly just _'fear'_ but he refrained from voicing it.

"Sometimes." She said, smiling bitterly at him, applying a bit of product so his curls stayed exactly where she wanted them. They had always been as difficult to control as the head to where they were attached, yet the girl made a defiant attempt. "Aren't you afraid of Moriarty?" She queried right back, yet the haunted expression on his face was more telling than any answer he could phrase, yet he still have to reply.

"It's different with him," He said, rolling his sleeves up to rest over his elbows. Trying so hard not to look his friend in the eye as he explained. "He has never given me any delusions of affection," He started, "But I still hate to disappoint him, he gets so angry and it makes me feel so…" The boy paused, looking for the right words to describe what it felt like to have the one person that had taught him everything he knew looking at him as if he were…"Ordinary."

Irene opened her big olive green eyes at him, stopping fussing with his hair and half-smiling in sympathy. "Well, moving on." She said shaking her head, as if ridding herself from the negative subjects. "Come look at my master piece." She stood up and motioned him for the mirror, then proceeded to cross her arms and cocked a hip in smugness.

"Oh," He muttered when he looked at his reflection on the mirror. He was far from shabby in his daily life, but what Irene had managed to do drew him to a stop. The choice of clothing was quite similar than his usual attire —sans the coat— but she somehow managed to make it look like he made an effort to look attractive.

"Yes, oh!" She agreed, touching up her lips now that they were looking at a mirror. "I'm starting to feel like we didn't need the love spell at all." She commented casually, yet the tone in which she said it was loaded with meaning. Sherlock disagreed with half of that statement, but found he was becoming quite aware of the brutal veracity of it.

"I-" He started, but was unable to finish since there was a series of knocking on the door of their room. He looked at Irene in panic, and she motioned the entrance with her head. She was right, it wasn't like he could keep John waiting out there forever. He sighed and threw open the door.

Big, bright blue eyes came to rest on his. Crinkling at the corners from the smile on his face. Such motion was followed by an actual appraisal of his figure which made the prince come to a stop. Slightly opening his mouth in surprise as if he were floored by his appearance. Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably, trying to channel that confidence he always had, but finding it hard when John was just standing there, at his door, with his pristine dark blue shirt and smart trousers, his hair stylishly messy, and looking at him as if he had been handmade. He painted a false grin on his face and waited for John to figure out how rude it was to stare so long at someone. Once he did, he laughed and extended a helmet to Sherlock, saying _'I hope you like bikes.'. He_ waited for him to follow in his path out of the room. The violet-haired boy took the steps after him, but not before taking a deep calming breath.

 _'Into battle.'_ He thought.

* * *

They drove for a while, passing by rows of trees until they were very far into the enchanted forest. Sherlock was not exactly fond of invasion of his personal space, yet he found the thrill of riding a motorcycle completely made up for any awkwardness he might have felt at being draped around John's back.

As soon as they arrived to their destination —which to Sherlock looked exactly like any other of the hundreds of trees they had encountered the last half-hour— they walked into the thick of the forest. Crossing a wooden, yet sturdy-looking bridge over a stream, as the colour of green on the leaves grew more intense the closer to the middle they got.

"Tell me something about yourself you've never told anyone." John had asked, while he followed him on the long passing. Smiling brightly and looking at him with interest in his eyes.

Sherlock pondered if he could reveal anything that would not let the prince know exactly how rotten he was. Finding nothing he wished to share, he opted instead for saying, "Now, where would be the mystery in that?" He turned around to smirk playfully at him, hoping the blonde would drop the issue.

"Oh, come on!" The other complained, laughing and chasing after Sherlock as he picked up the pace. "You know what? I'll start," He decided, keeping his stance open and trusting. "My middle name is Hamish." He admitted. Sherlock let out a chuckle, and stopped to stare at him.

"Hamish?" He questioned, a mischievous expression crossing his face. "How princely." The violet boy snorted and found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in the evening. They turned to watch the landscape side by side, resting their elbows on the railing.

"Oy!" John replied, faking an outraged reaction; making the both of them laugh harder. When the mirth died down, Sherlock figured it was only fair to give John Hamish Watson something too. It's not like it would make any difference if he were to also reveal an insignificant detail.

With a sigh he muttered. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He said to the vast space of the forest. John frowned in confusion; not quite understanding what he was being given —he could be really slow sometimes— so, the rebel decided to elaborate. "My name. That's the whole of it."

"Wow," He retorted, raising both his eyebrows at the younger boy. "Big posh name." John commented, and Sherlock shrugged fixing his silver gaze into the other's.

"Just my mum doing what she did best." He commented. "Being really, _really_ evil." The joke was not even that funny, yet John let out a roaring laugh as if he were something special. The violet-haired found not even that was able to draw the smile off his face completely, if anything the ridiculousness of the situation just managed to heighten his mood.

"Christ," John exclaimed in a very royal way. "That's almost worse." It was the violet-haired boy's time to feign offense.

"It's better than Hamish!" He responded quickly, scrunching up his nose. They continued on in the same manner for several minutes, until John declared he had to wrap a blindfold over his eyes to avoid him ruining the surprise he had prepared. Sherlock rolled his eyes but accepted after a few not very gentle attempts at convincing him.

They walked around in circles for a bit, Sherlock knew it was the prince's way to make him unable to figure out their location before they were there. "John, you know I can deduce where we're going." He reminded his date. He could practically _hear_ the frown of determination that would be painting John's expression. "No, you can't." The blonde said, guiding him down some logs. "You've never been here before." He explained, letting his voice take on a hint of smugness at having seemingly beat the rebel on the matter. Sherlock, of course, didn't agree.

"Stop giving me clues!" He insisted. Crossing his arms petulantly, refusing to move one inch further if John didn't take the offending object off. He could hear the prince laughing amusedly behind him and also feel him almost manhandling him to the location he desired. He let himself be led to avoid falling on his face, of course, it had nothing to do with giving in to John's wishes.

After a few more minutes of blind-walking, the prince finally stopped and reached his hands to the back of Sherlock's head to tug off the cloth covering his eyes. "Okay, go on." He said.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, letting the light in inside his head again. What he saw in front of him was a sight to behold. A clearing in the forest, next to a big lake with crystalline water and surrounding wildlife; an ancient construction of columns in ruins with ivy growing around their width; and at the centre, a picnic basket over a blue blanket waiting for them. The curly-haired boy restrained the urge to bolt, to just get away as far as his feet would take him, his need to avoid the destruction he could feel happening inside him was overwhelming; but once he turned around to see the expectant face of the boy who had planned all this and made sure to come earlier to set it up, well, he found himself rooted to the spot.

Together they made their way over and sat down, point at which John had already started talking about some ridiculous thing that Sherlock only paid half a mind to. He chose instead just to watch as the blue-eyed waved his arms in explanation and laughed at his own story. Sherlock would deny until the last seconds of his life that the sight brought an ironic smile to his lips.

They got to talking about their various interests, and slowly the pastries and fruit John had brought for them got consumed. The blonde looked at him with sparkling eyes that caused a tinge of pain to go through the other's chest. Sherlock was completely aware that he had basically scammed John into this, not only the conversation but the date, the whole relationship, everything. He failed to understand why this particular bad —quite mild, actually—deed made him so anxious, and even somewhat guilty. Ashamed, for the first time in all his life. However John didn't seem to notice his hesitancy, and continued to watch him eat the dessert and lick his fingers with silent regard.

"Is this your first time?" He asked Sherlock, and the other boy choked on his jelly doughnut, coming very close to death by circle bread. Alarmingly opening his eyes as his coughs subsided. John watched him with confusion at first, but couldn't help but laugh in embarrassment once he understood exactly how that sounded.

"No, no, no. Not _that._ " Came the quick amendment, while Sherlock was still trying to recover from the halt to which his mind had come at what had been asked from him. "I _meant:_ is this your first time eating a doughnut?" He explained in a very soft and apologetic manner, yet the grin on his face betrayed how amused he really was at his reaction.

At the clarification, Sherlock finally started breathing again. He had no qualms with sexuality, but he never thought he had to prepare for John asking personal questions like that on top of everything else that was already wrong with this date. Thankfully, it was just a misunderstanding and John remained a gentleman. He thought then about the actual inquiry he had been presented.

"Is it bad?" He asked, deducing there must be quite a lot of mess on his face from the sugary heaven for the prince to notice he hadn't quite mastered the art of eating confectionary yet. The Island lacked of anything sweet or tasty; just half-stale bread and tasteless, insipid vegetables.

John laughed as the violet-haired tried to lick clean the skin surrounding his mouth. "You just got a-" The blonde said as he reached his hand towards the other's face, only for the other to flinch back and avoid any sort of contact. John retreated his arm, yet he didn't seem confused or angry, just accepting, and Sherlock thought it would have been less frustrating if he had yelled at him. "Do this." John demonstrated, licking and smacking his lips, then smiling.

Sherlock sighed, but the other's natural reaction left him feeling like a moron for thinking it a big deal. He decided to smirk back at him, saying "You can't take me anywhere, I guess." And waiting for the other to match his laughing.

"Well," John started, placing his own dessert back into the basket. "You've talked so much about that murder —don't think I'll ever be able to erase those images from brain." He quipped, shaking his head but still chuckling fondly at him. "But tell me more about _you_ ," He emphasised, leaning back to rest casually on the blanket. "Who are you."

 _'Well, I'm a lying bastard that cheated you into loving him just so he could steal a wand and destroy the world you genuinely care about.'_ Sherlock thought, but figured it would be too much to say that, even if John was almost forced into devotion for him. So he settled for: "I'm partial to reading."

"Me too!" The other exclaimed excitedly, "We have so much in common already." He said, causing a big smile to break into the boy's expression. The blonde popping a grape into his mouth and grinning innocently at the other.

"Trust me." Sherlock ignored the irony of his statement in favour of enjoying the comfortable atmosphere between them. "We do not." He confessed, yet his eyes weren't portraying mischief or irritability, they were bright, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. John squinted his gaze in regard, but chose to stay silent, as if he were pondering something. "And soon you will be king," Sherlock added.

"A crown doesn't make you a king." The blue-eyed was quick to disagree. Running a hand through his hair to mess up some strands. Giving him an air of nonchalance that Sherlock just found pleasing. After living between snobby royals for weeks long, the break was much appreciated.

"It sort of does." He counters, moving his head in a cocky expression. John pursed his lips, yet looked at him as if he were a challenge to be faced.

"Okay, smartarse." He admitted, and threw a few grapes at Sherlock in demonstration of his real feelings at the moment. His face turned serious then, as if to speak some ancient gospel that the violet-haired boy had ignored for his entire life, and said: "But I mean, your mother was the mistress of evil."

"Correct." Sherlock answered. Watching him in expectation to continue, not really knowing where he was going with that, and there was nothing in the world Sherlock hated more than not knowing —not even stupid Anderson.

"And I've got the poster parents for goodness." John continued, his arms lifting him up into a sitting position to convey his message more clearly. The other boy failed to comprehend the strange correlation.

"Also correct." Sherlock answered, nodding his head in agreement. Goading him to just get to the point already!

"But we're not them." The prince explained, conveying much deeper meaning than the obvious, common phrase that was usual.

"You're on fire today, John." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the blonde and waving his arms in expectation. The prince scowled and glared at him in a manner decidedly similar to how the rebel did it, yet it lacked the fire behind the crystal blue irises.

"What I mean is we get to choose who we're going to be." The prince concluded, watching him with an intense stare. As if this matter had been weighing on him for far too long. Sherlock was taken aback by the blonde's lack of confidence in his own ability to rule. He had thought that the hesitancy was just normal, pedestrian nerves; but he had never anticipated the prince being actually worried that he was going to fail at the task. The thought seemed so unfathomable to the curly-haired man. Except, of course, by the fact that the biggest reason that John's reign was inevitably going to crash and burn was sitting in front of him, laughing with him and eating his food.

"I suppose." Sherlock said, for lack of anything else to respond. What could he say at such an statement? He had concrete proof against John's ideal. He was sure that John would rule with justice and kindness exactly like his parents, and _he_ was going to ruin everything just like his mother used to do, just before the royals decapitated her for her sins with a dragon sword in front of her two young sons.

"Let's go for a swim." John proposed, swiftly dragging Sherlock away from his thoughts, and back into the present. Once the rebel realised what was happening John was already unbuttoning his shirt.

"What? Right now?" He muttered dumbly, his eyes open wide. "I think I'm just going to stay here." He said, leaning back as if to demonstrate how much better the land was.

"No, no, no." John said, trying to haul him up by his arms, but Sherlock just stubbornly refused to go. "Come on!" He exclaimed, laughing but still very much insisting that Sherlock did as he wanted, and if that wasn't role-reversal Sherlock failed to recognise what was.

"Maybe I'll try a strawberry," The younger boy said, making a show of grabbing a piece of said fruit and brining it to his mouth. "I've literally never tried a strawberry." He commented, making a false noise of delectable taste. However, once the sweet red juice of the fruit actually touched his tongue, the sounds became real. He had never tried something so sweet but deliciously tangy before.

John, realising the boy's new found love, smiled. Staying for a few seconds to watch the other pop another strawberry into his mouth. He figured it would be better to leave Sherlock and his food alone. The rebel watched him, still munching contentedly on the fruit. The blonde paused when he had stripped down to his shorts, the aquatic activities clearly planned beforehand. "Don't eat all of them." John turned around to run towards a hill from which a waterfall of clear water came down, and stood right at the edge of it, making sure his date was watching so he could impress him.

"Are those little crowns on your shorts?" Sherlock asked from the blanket. Making reference to the crowned pattern of the other's blue suit.

The prince looked down to said item, but just shrugged and smiled. "Maybe." He said, with a hint of sheepishness but not a drop of embarrassment. Sherlock, laughing amusedly, was not sure how was it possible for a person like John Watson to exist. The blonde took a moment to watch him, then he turned to the lake down below and made a loud and fierce roaring sound, like a beast; a prelude followed by a fearless drop from what Sherlock estimated was around fifteen meters.

Once on the lake, John kept on swimming, but Sherlock was left standing there, dumbstruck in his confusion. He could feel his insides shaking in frustration, the thoughts in his head whirling about out of control. He didn't know what was happening. He had been so sure, so certain of who he was; but this was something else entirely. Never, not even once in his whole life something had made him feel as if maybe he was not just what everyone was expecting from the son of Violet Holmes. Could that be wrong?

How was he to go on if he started questioning everything he ever stood for? He didn't need this stupid, non-sensical doubt at the moment. They were already so close to achieving everything. He had rarely ever been offered a chance such as this, where everything he had ever worked for was within his reach. Yet now, he felt as if he would have to trade in something he had found for himself in the process, something he didn't even know he had been missing. He had lived his days within a strict line, decidedly never straying from it, yet now there was an unprecedented factor that he never saw coming.

What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't really just back out of their plan; he didn't even know _if_ he wanted to back out. Doing evil had been everything for him since he could remember, and it wasn't as if suddenly he wished to change his ways and become every bit as dull as every other person, of course not! He just wanted a way to know how to kill this strange pit inside his stomach that threaten to eat him alive. He tugged at his curls in anger, raging at the stupid notion.

He couldn't stop. No matter how much he wanted to, the effects had been set in motion and he was powerless to stop them. Falling deeper and deeper into an unknown, scary territory of which he failed to determine whether he actually wanted to get out in the first place. Every plan of attack he could be thinking would be useless, no one could help him, nobody would be able to tell him why he suddenly felt as if every decision he had taken had been lived by a different person. Someone that he had never been. The blood pumping quickly through his veins felt like liquid fire under his skin, he wondered how could he be such an idiot as to allow this to happen?

Perhaps coming to Auradon was a big mistake. The Island was familiar, and no matter how much he loathed routine and ordinariness, the boy felt anything was better now than the alternative. Sherlock. Cocky, smartarse, Sherlock. Who was never wrong, who was ruthless and coldly logical to a fault, who was now frozen next to an sparkling lake wondering if maybe, just this once, he should give in.

The rebel let out a sound of irritation. He couldn't let this distract him from his objective. Still, he wondered if it would really be that bad. He was an arsehole, a villain. That is just the way he was, but was it possible for a criminal to want something such as this that badly? Well, it clearly was because he was feeling it, like the moron he had become. He had walked himself into a corner and let himself be defeated by someone as unassuming as John fucking Watson.

Sure, the prince loved him now. Now, that he had no choice but to do so. But would it linger on? Once the farce was gone, and the magic had died? Sherlock thought not. He had no right nor high hopes of it and it would be foolish to discard himself, and his ambitions, for something so impossible; He was done with behaving as a stumbling idiot over this.

He threaded his fingers through his violet curls in frustration once more, the ones his mother had given him, the proof that he was built for that future. However, the call of destiny, usually so loud and strong, had been left silent, and he, floating around in space with no line or guidance as to what he was supposed to do. Of what he _wanted_ to do.

But there would be no way of knowing. The feeling inside his chest so unfathomable it would kill him if unwatched. He was fighting a battle within himself that he refused to believe was already lost, yet he know which side _had_ to win. It always had, and he suspected it always would. That was just who he was, and there was no use of dwelling on ' _if only_ 's.

Turning around, hoping for a distraction from his inner turmoil, he looked for John. His silver gaze raked the space of the lake, but he couldn't see the prince anywhere, not in nor out of the water. "John?" He called, quickly moving about and trying to spot him, but nothing was coming up. A strange fear gripped him, making him desperate to spot a blonde head over the surface. "John!" He tried again, only to receive no answer. He hesitated for just a moment, but then found himself jumping off the edge and falling into the lake with a big splash.

Once in the water, Sherlock realised what a huge mistake he had made since there were certain skills than he had never mastered, namely swimming. He kicked his legs and swung his arms but found that was not enough to keep him afloat for much longer, he was swiftly beginning to sink and he barely had time to watch John sight him from across the lake and make his way towards him. Strong arms came to grip him under his arms and hauled him towards the surface. The sudden rush of air making his lungs burn with boring —but necessary— oxygen as the violet-haired boy coughed all the way to land.

"Ugh, you idiot!" The rebel exclaimed, still trying to keep the water off his respiratory system and glaring at John when he realised it had probably been intended as a jest. He punched the prince's arm for good measure.

"What?" The other asked with a mixture of concern and confusion, "You can't swim?" He looked at him as if trying to make sure he would be fine. Of course he will be alright, he just had to avoid water as he had done pretty much all his life. How could someone would ever be at ease around ridiculous heights or suspiciously still waters? the boy failed to know.

"Obviously." He spat petulantly. Rolling his eyes and doing his best to squish the water out from his hair, leaving a mess of drops on the rock below him. Shivering from the freezing breeze hitting his damp skin.

"You live on a island!" John insisted, clearly anguished and trying to asses how much he had messed up with that crazy idea. Helping Sherlock safely up the rock and into the soft blanket.

"Yes," The other muttered in condescendence. "With a barrier around it, remember?" Came the obvious snarl, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He knew it wasn't entirely fair to blame all this on John, but he had been on edge for days now, and even if he wouldn't admit it, he had been afraid that the prince had drowned.

"And you still tried to save me," John commented, awe painting his handsome face. Ignoring his own coldness, and quickly placing his shirt over the shoulders of the curly-haired boy. Running his hands over the cloth in an effort to transmit a bit of warmth into his shivering form.

"Yes, and do you thank me? No." He retorted, crossing his arms in a deep sulk and frowning in annoyance. "All I get is fucking wet!" Sherlock turned his gaze to look at the other boy, and found that a small fond smile was on the prince's face.

"Thank you," John said, regarding him in a very strange manner that Sherlock failed to deduce. As if he were seeing him clearly for the first time. Something was different, yet the rebel didn't know exactly what had changed. He hated how his brain had essentially gone for a vacation, and left him with all this uncertainty. "You're my hero." He said, and leaned down to press a short and chaste kiss on Sherlock's cheek. The violet-haired boy didn't lean into it, but he also didn't flinch away; Sherlock was choosing to ignore that too.

"Heroes don't exist." He stated, finding comfort in something he found familiar. "And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." The face the other made at this statement could have been framed, gaping like a fish as he shook his head incredulous.

"What?" He asked, "You don't think people can be heroes?" John was left dumbstruck.

"No," Sherlock responded, having already had too many meetings with both, villains and supposed heroes to be able to tell that there was not much of a difference when it came to motivations. "Heroism implies sincere sacrifice, and any sacrifice always ends up being selfish at some level."

"That doesn't make it any less true," The passion behind the blonde's gaze was mesmerizing to watch. Frowning and clearly refusing to let himself believe for one second someone in this world could think heroism was impossible. "Not everyone is what they seem, the intentions behind their actions count," He continued, playing with the string on his shorts, now seemingly at ease with his exposed body in the chilly wind. "Like the good for other people, the outrage at someone being mistreated," He paused to look him in the eyes, conveying every word like a prayer. Hoping Sherlock would believe him. "Love." He finished, his expression adoring and understanding, which Sherlock didn't understand, the spell appeared to have increased over the date, the exact opposite to what the boy had anticipated. "It doesn't matter whether you can see it or not." John added, reaching over and taking a strand of wet purple hair into his fingers. Staring fascinated at the bright colour. "And right now I look into your eyes and I _do_ see it. I can see that you're not evil." He said with a conviction Sherlock hoped he could mirror. Help him lift of the weight. Yet, the only thing it did was remind the rebel of how condemned he was. There was no way to win, he knew that now; no matter his choice, he will end up losing.

"Sherlock, I know this is quick but I already told you what I feel," He continued, his expressive blue gaze softening at finding his own even after the sulk, and the argument, and Sherlock just being his weird and troublesome self. "Do you feel the same way for me?"

The truth was trapped inside the rebel's throat, and he felt grateful. He refused to say it, because to put anything real into words would be to forsake everything else he had built. "Let's go back to the school, I hate being wet." He said instead. Quickly standing up and completely missing the disappointed look on the prince's eyes.

* * *

The sun was already down when John arrived at the council chamber. He had neglected his duties to go on the date and now he was decided to pour through the day's paper work and catch up.

He walked in the semi-darkness of the room, the only light streaming in from the tall windows of the east wing of the castle. The grand table at the centre keeping him from making his visit short-lived. When he arrived to the end of the room he flicked the light on to be able to recognise which papers he had to bring back into his room for a late night read, only to jump back once he saw a previously unnoticed figure hunched over some files.

"Mike!" John exclaimed. "What are you still doing here?" He asked his friend, even though his activities were quite obvious. He knew Mike often over-worked himself into a state in matters of the kingdom, but it was a weekend, and John had made it his personal mission to not let the other burden himself with tasks that someone else had to supervise.

The other lifted his head from the folder and looked at his sovereign. "Your Majesty." He greeted. "The date was a success then," He said, a subtle grin crossing his usual stoic face. John rolled his eyes at the title, he had ordered Mike not to call him that since they met, yet the other never seemed to listen.

"Yes, it was wonderful," He answered, completely aware of the wistful grin on his own face, and completely not giving a fuck about it. He was happy, and he would be damned if he hid that from someone he had always considered his brother. A much closer relationship than what he had with Harry, even if at the end of the day, she will always be his sister.

"Good," Mike muttered, turning his head back to bury his nose into the files again; but in no way ignoring or dismissing the prince. He could multitask like no one John had ever met before.

The blonde sighed and dropped himself down on the chair next to the advisor. "You have to meet him, Mike." He said with a hopeful and elated voice, yet there was a hint of uncertainty there too. He would deal what that later. "You'll like him, he's wonderful." John commented, to which the other just arched an eyebrow. Mike was a very private man, and everybody knew that making friends with him was something rare but valuable, so it was seen as a great feat to proclaim he would take a liking to anyone.

"I believe that, Your Majesty." The older man said, as he rummaged the desk for the pen he was using earlier. John stared at him in incredulity, he was the first to not dismiss a kid from the Island the first chance he got. "You are a good judge of character." The other stated after experiencing the silence while the blue-eyed recovered his thought process. "You wouldn't be that taken with someone who wasn't worth your time." He stated, and Mike will never know how that comment helped ease John's mind so well. Any apprehension he could have was gone before it came, his friend was right, and he had to trust his instincts on this.

"Is everything ready for family day?" John asked, for lack of anything else to say this late at night. Reaching for some papers in the big pile next to Mike's desk and skimming through them in contemplation.

"The preparations are well taken care of," He answered efficiently. "You don't have to worry." Mike said, running a hand through his thick hair and adjusting his shirt sleeves around his forearms.

"Christ, you do everything around here." John exclaimed, pressing his hands to his tired eyes. "Maybe you should be the King and I could find another profession, I heard botanists are well respected." He joked, drawing a smile from his friend's face.

Mike shook his head, "That is not how it works." He said, with an expression which conveyed that John must be very aware of that by now. "And I don't think your parents would be thrilled." He commented.

The prince was certain that was true, yet sometimes he wished he could do it, just leave this behind and become someone common, ordinary. Yet when he thought about all the change he could make when in reign, well, the tasks didn't seem so daunting. He was making a difference, for the kingdom, the kids from the Isle; for himself. And he wouldn't let anyone take that away from him.

After a few hours of catching up with the week's obligations, Mike and John retired to their designated chambers, but just after parting, the advisor turned to the prince and said one last time. "John," The blonde turned around to look at his friend. "I look forward to meeting him." He said, a calm and thoughtful expression on his face.

"Thank you." The prince responded, as he turned around and exited the chambers.

* * *

The sky on The Isle of the Lost was awake, rain pouring down from the sky in a violent and relentless manner that made every villain and miscreant take refuge in their houses. Moriarty wandered the halls of his castle. Completely silent now that young Sherlock was in Auradon doing his best —which was clearly not much— to retrieve the wand. Well, maybe slow and steady would be better than rushing into it, yet he was impatient to get his hands on it and finally seize the power that he always deserved.

He went to his closet, the one he had gone to great lengths to keep Sherlock from seeing. He wasn't ready yet, and perhaps he never would be. He opened the doors and scanned the contents inside. There was quite a lot of items belonging to Violet Holmes; enchanted artifacts which no longer served any purpose with a dome preventing magic from entering the island, and also a few tokens she had collected when she was younger, right before she started caving in to her weakness and spawning children of different partners as if she had been just another commoner whore.

James had been still quite young when he met her, and he had admired her from the start, she had been the epitome of evil impersonated; however, immortal decades made her soft and his interests surpassed hers quite quickly. The only thing about her superior from him had been her natural affinity with the dark magics, while Moriarty didn't even posses any magical ability whatsoever. But that had been managed.

James thought back on when they were able to torment to their hearts content as he pushed aside some old clothing and searched for the particular item he desired. Now it had been thirteen cycles since the royals had usurped that which was his by decree of destiny.

He had placed his best opportunity on Sherlock now, and the scrawny teen better not fail him. He pondered, smiling when his hand made contact with a cold and hard thing at the back of the wardrobe. He would find it oh-so-inconvenient were he in need of disposing of him, although that too could be arranged. He may not have to do anything at all. The royals would not be very quick to forgive any threat to their precious kingdom were Sherlock to fail. _"It isn't as if that hasn't happen before."_ He thought, as he watched his reflexion glinting in the surface of the dragon sword between his hands.


	8. Chapter 7: Fraud is For The Weak

**Chapter 7: Fraud is for the Weak**

 _It is one of the most ancient of bad deeds, dating back more than centuries. Fraud, is a wrongful or criminal deception intended to fool others typically by unjustifiably claiming or being credited with accomplishments for personal gain._

When Lady Hudson said at the start of the course she would make them sit through all the twenty weekly sessions of _'Remedial Goodness 101'_ even if she had to glue them to the chairs, she was certainly not jesting around. They were currently on session number six, and Sherlock was already desperate to have the never-ending torture to be done; even if he had to steal one thousand wands to achieve it, anything was better than sitting there and listening to mindless drivel for two hours straight. He was so exasperated with it, Lady Hudson's voice was now on permanent mute inside his head.

"Children," She said, only to be met with silence as each of the three students continued on not paying the least bit of attention to her, or the class. "Children!" She said sternly, with a tone of voice that left no doubt she would use force to make them listen if she had to. Greg seemed to realise the situation and batted at Sherlock's arm to draw his attention.

Once the three kids were on board, Lady Hudson smiled and walked to the front of the room to roll out a giant TV screen. "As you know, this Friday is family day here at Auradon." She explained, fussing a bit with the controllers, "And because your family can't be here due to…" She stopped, trying to put delicately the fact that their parents —or in Sherlock's case: guardian— were essentially mass-murdering criminals. "Distance." It was what she settled for. "We've arranged for a special treat." The lady grinned excitedly, probably not realising that whatever she had planned it wouldn't be as enjoyable for the rebels as she thought it would.

The screen came alive, with the image of the last three people they desired to see at the moment. The smiling, smug faces not making them feel comfortable or homely at all. Sherlock, who had been facing away from the front, sighed when he heard Moriarty exclaim his name in delight. He took a moment to gather his wits and painted a fake smile on his face before turning around. "Moriarty!" He stated.

The responding expression was predatory, completely aware of how unwanted their prescience was. There was not much to be said about Irene and Lestrade's parents, well _parenting,_ but at the very least they weren't as cynical about their true interest as Moriarty was. Greg shared a glance with him, a quick look of apprehension in turn to display the dread they all felt. It was clear that none of the kids wanted to be reminded of the fact that this 'vacations' were not going to become permanent, the real reason why they were there was already hanging above them like a shading cloud wherever they went. Still, The Great Schemer beamed at his son, completely oblivious to what happened.

Hudson stood next to them, apparently to offer her support should they need it, fact that was not to go unnoticed by the villains. "Lady Hudson!" Jim exclaimed, turning away his attention from Sherlock for a moment. "What a pleasure! Long time no see." The voice booming through the speakers seemed to suck the air out of the whole room; Sherlock wondered what it said about him the fact that that which he admired once, now he found slightly disconcerting. He chose not to dwell on how far he had fallen.

Lady Hudson didn't seemed the least bit pleased at his sight, crossing her arms over her delicately embroidered morning suit. "Still doing trick with eggplants?" The snake asked, while the three kids looked in consternation. The older fairy grimaced in outrage, frowning and sending them a glare of dislike worthy of any outlaw out there.

"I turned a pumpkin into a beautiful carriage." Her defense seemed powered by cycles and cycles of dealing with people —mainly criminals— behaving skeptical of her actions. She was _The Defender of Light,_ yet that title will never manage to make you popular among the group that you helped stopping.

"You really couldn't have given her until one am?" The other prodded. Sherlock identified the tactic he was using, he had been taught that strategy by the exact same person delivering it. Moriarty really couldn't care less whether that ratty princess got more time with the stupid prince, but it was useful to find subjects the opponent believed the height of their character and twisting them into something stale and sour. That had always been Sherlock's favourite pastime.

Lady Hudson looked about to start an argument, so Irene thanked her for the treat but still motioned her to let them handle them. The fairy let out a frustrated sigh, but complied and stepped aside to allow them to speak with their family; hovering around the front desk in caution.

"Hello, Moriarty." Sherlock was quick to greet, ready to deal with the situation as he faced it head on. Irene and Lestrade may not be entirely thrilled of the overbearing, and yet disinterested presence, but the violet-haired boy could still detect a trace of regard inside their bodies; regard that he was desperate to not let show in the face of its object.

"Sherlock," The man cooed, as if delighted by seeing him again. The rebel figured he'd be a tad more delighted had Sherlock possessed something between his hands other than his books. "I miss you." The lie rolling easily from his mouth. Sherlock smirked and innocently widen his eyes at him.

"You children are never far from our thoughts." Greg's father commented, to which Lestrade pulled a soft smile. The other villains on the screen eyed him in exasperation. Displaying a mild aversion for his moronic attempts at conveying the message.

"I know, Jim." The curly-haired boy responded, noticing the disappointed expressions the two of his companions were trying to mask. Sherlock never really had any delusions about his role on Moriarty's life, yet this was actually family for Irene and Greg and it must sting to realise their only true concern was in the wand and their impending power —not that his mother had been better when she was alive, she was arguably worse.

The Adler Queen adjusted her silk gloves and pursed her deep red lips in a smirk. "How long until we get to see you?" She asked, to which the three kids looked at each other in hesitation. It would probably be unwise to set a date, given that they were not sure their scheme would work, but leaving them hanging would definitely be worse in the long run.

Sherlock fidgeted with the sleeves of his smart coat, "There's a big coronation coming up," He leadened his statement with hidden meaning, glancing at Lady Hudson, who was still listening in while pretending to sort through several papers. "So, probably some time after that."

"When?" The criminal insisted, his deep brown eyes getting a swirling shade of lime green colour around in warning. The violet-haired boy retreated slightly, wanting to avoid falling trapped to the Dragon's Witchcraft. Ever since he could remember he had been uneasy when someone —be it Moriarty or his mother— used it on him. Believing someday he would actually end up imprisoned inside his own mind as the stories said. The older he got did nothing for the feeling of resistance he experienced whenever the power made its way inside his head. True or false, those myths had been on his thoughts for far too long to shake them off.

"Next Saturday!" He was quick to answer, almost compulsively. Like it had been ripped out from his throat. "10 am." He sighed, crossing his arms and shaking his curls in attempt to rid himself of the threat.

"You sure I can't see you before that?" The other asked, making a harmless face and acting for all the world as a parent missing his kid, the three teenagers fought the urge to spit at them. "I don't know what I will do if I don't get my hands on that magic-" He stopped himself, realising mid-sentence that letting greed hinder the slim chances they had was not a good risk to take; no matter how impatient he was for it to be true. "On you," He corrected swiftly, acting as if the mishap had never happened. "You who I love like a son."

This hit Sherlock like the slap it actually was. "Yes, I completely understand, Moriarty." He smiled, the expression not enough to cloud over the look of disgust inside his silver gaze. Moriarty leaned back, satisfied with the information and no longer interested in the conversation now that he had what he desired.

"Greg, is that an uniform?" The Great Schemer asked, nearing his head into the camera to see correctly. He motioned to the blue and golden jersey the rebel was wearing.

"Yes, I play on team." Greg answered, his voice taking on a challenging edge, and his hands balling into fists. The muscles on his arms were straining said shirt, Sherlock looked on in half-amusement at watching his friend so flustered. Who knew he could become so attached to a sports team?

"Ha! you?" The laugh The Schemer let out pierced through the speakers loudly. "Since when you can play any sort of thing?" He said incredulously, turning around to the other older villains for their support at such claim. Needless to say, neither of the others seemed to care much one way or the other.

"I've helped them win the last three games." The teen deadpanned. Not as smug as he should be, the violet-haired boy considered. On the screen Irene's mum was re-applying her lipstick, smiling satisfyingly to her reflection on the mirror at the situation.

"Stop smirking, witch!" The man suddenly became angrier, as if everything had been a huge treason; which in a way, it was. They weren't supposed to be enjoying any sort of part in this; they were on a mission, the most important mission, some would argue, and the elders expected them to focus accordingly. Moriarty seemed extremely exasperated by the behavior of his associates, and looked ready to leave altogether from sheer boredom.

"Why don't you go sale a toaster, you two-bit salesman?" The Queen retorted, and after that, the both of them proceeded to fight amongst themselves, while Jim rolled his eyes and stood up.

Noticing the commotion, Lady Hudson popped her head around the screen to watch the scene unfolding in front of the students. Irene reached out her hand and swiftly turned off the device before the woman could comment anything about it.

"I'm so sorry, dears." Hudson said, her face apologetic in the worst ways. Looking at each of them as if she had personally struck them. The rebel boy cared little for her sympathy, yet having that emotion turned towards them felt unnatural after having been the other way around for so long.

The three of them grabbed their bags and made towards the door, suddenly feeling quiet despondent about the whole thing. "Thank you for the special treat." Greg added, turning around and giving the Lady a sad smile as they exited.

"Sherl," Irene turned to the boy, once they were far enough as to not be heard. She quickened her pace to keep up with his long legs; too eager to get as far away from the situation as physically possible. "What do you think they'll do to us if we don't pull this off?" She asked, a hint of worry painting her voice that had never been there before. It's true they often joked about what the repercussions could be if they failed, but never had it seem so real, so imminent.

"They will probably be quietly disappointed," Sherlock phrased carefully, tilting his head sideways in silent pondering. "But ultimately move on and be proud of us for trying." Was the conclusion, although he appeared not to have any conviction on what he had said.

"Really?" Lestrade asked from behind them. Hauling his massive Tourney bag over his shoulders and trying too hard not to let the tentatively hopeful expression show on his face at what he declared.

"Noup." Sherlock answered, pointedly pronouncing the letter 'p' as if that casualness could make up for the terrible reality of the fact. "We are definitely goners." He finished, hurrying away from the hallway with his two friends following behind him.

* * *

"I know what you're doing." Came the high voice of Mary Mortsan just before she slammed close Sherlock's locker door. Her words demanding.

"Storing books in my locker?" He asked innocently, yet with an arched eyebrow that showed a streak of a mischievous nature. He gracefully picked the texts he had dropped at her entrance. Her figure in front of him oddly defiant, as if she would not back down. If anything, Sherlock admired her courage.

"You can drop the act," She commented, crossing her arms in defiance. "You may be fooling everyone else, but you're not fooling me." Mary said, her perfect short hair blinding with the golden light of the sun, which always seemed to beat down on the kingdom there.

The violet-haired was impressed, he was completely aware that Mary suspected them more than your commoner royal idiot, but he hadn't anticipated her to actually confront him about it. "Very well, then." He accepted, his face hardening and his eyes took on their calculating edge he worked so hard to suppress in front of everyone at the realm. "What do you want?"

"You did something to John!" The princess accused, her breathing becoming ragged in her exaltation. "You spelled him." Her eyes were portraying loathing and outrage. "He's making mushy eyes at you, and that stunt at the game? He would never do something like that. Not for someone like you." She started, "Not if he weren't under some sort of curse." The boy tried to dismiss the feeling that sentence spread through his body; as if he had been shot in the chest. Instead, he focused on keeping his face as unaffected as he could. "You probably even gave him those dreams!" She accused.

"Dreams?" Sherlock found himself questioning, he wasn't responsible for any dream breeding; the cookies and the stealing he could claim, but he hadn't even been aware John had consequent dreams. "I think I'd be more creative than that, Mary." He retorted, grabbing his bag and stepping away from the lockers, leaning back over the railing at the other side of the hallway.

"I don't know what you're planning, but you won't get away with this trick." She assured, walking closer to him in opposition. "This fraud." She explained and frowned at the smirk that made its way to the boy's face. He had her.

"Reminds you of anyone, Mary?" He asked nonchalantly, grinning as if he were in on a secret she ignored, except this time she did know it. "A _fraud_?" An air of sarcastic flare present in the last word.

The princess regarded him strangely, but decided not to comment on it, lest he was bluffing and she would accidentally give him any clues of the truth. She was almost as easy to read as John was. "I'll tell John." She concluded. "And if he doesn't believe me, I'll tell Mike, or his parents." Her peach pink dress was contrasting starkly with the fire in her voice. Sherlock sighed and waited for her to finish. "They'll have you shipped back to the Isle in a second."

Sherlock had to prevent that from happening. Even if he felt as conflicted as never before, he needed to have the opportunity to do it, it wasn't as if he could forsake the mission that easily. "No need." He answered, "I'll tell him myself." The high collar of his coat framing his angular face, giving him an even more intimidating stance. Mary stared at him in confusion, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me and tell Prince John how you are truly a bastard product of adultery." He commented, only to watch her freeze completely in place. "What?" He asked. "You thought I didn't know how your precious perfect life is built up on a lie?" The violet-haired boy was aware how much of a sore subject that would be, yet it was not enough to deter the words tumbling down his mouth, "How Prince Philip Mortsan is not your biological father?"

The princess looked indecisive between fleeing in shame and jumping on him in violence. Sherlock had deduced as much since the first time he had laid eyes on her, yet he refrained from saying anything; now, however, it appeared he had to anyway. "I mean, his best friend? You live on neighboring castles and share brunch every Sunday. And I thought _I_ was rotten." He commented, shaking his head as if said deed would be too vile even by his extremely twisted standards. He casually pushed his purple curls away from his face and got standing straight, aiming to intimidate. "Prince Anderson even named his son after him; guilt perhaps?" Sherlock had had a kick when they first told him Anderson's first and last name, not believing how incredibly hypocritical everyone outside of the Island was. Once he got back —if he went back— he would never look at images of precious royals on the small screen in the same way again.

"You're clever, Mary, you obviously found out." Sherlock continued, taking note of the way her lips pursed in recognition, she was clearly intelligent enough to piece the real story together, yet not sufficiently as to realise how social-status was backing her into a corner; giving him something to hold against her; a vulnerability. "But no one can ever know, isn't that right?" Sherlock stalked towards her, an expression brimming with intensity inside him. "Not only would it destroy both families, but it will, more importantly, forever brand you as a bastard born out of wedlock," He commented ironically, "Just like me." He had been aware that Mary had been completely and vocally against the idea of kids from the Isle living among them since the start, but that resentment only grew as she found out how similar their situations would be if she were to be seen for what she truly is. The three of them portraying perfectly everything that terrified her about herself.

"We are nothing alike." She insisted, as proof of the previous argument, no matter what happened, she will forever deny that she was part of them in any way. "You may not care about anything, but I do care about John." She said, looking up at him in confrontation.

Sherlock took a sharp step back, as if struck. He supposed she had quite a lot of proof of said statement, he had believed himself incapable of emotions before they came to Auradon, but now… now implying he didn't lit a fire inside him. Raging, and scorching his blood. He was not capable of allowing anything to question the existence or make light of something which had completely shattered his whole universe. "Do not presume to tell me what I do or do not feel." He snarled, not knowing with whom he was more frustrated: The princess —who was, in her own right, completely correct about him— or himself for letting the situation spiral this far out of his control. "You have no clue what you're talking about." The boy stated.

Mary seemed to regard him for a moment, pushing her soft blonde hair behind his ear as if she were preparing for making business. "Who else have you told?" She asked, her stance not as defensive when she could recognise he had no real intentions of ratting her out.

"Not a soul." The violet-haired answered truthfully; and honestly, even if his insides compelled him to expose hers and her mother's dirty secret, he found he could actually sympathise with her in some way; Fascinating that he realised he was capable of said emotion under such circumstances.

"John can never know." Mary insisted, her blue eyes taking on an edge of desperation that she attempted so hard to hide. "I would lose him forever." She said, yet refrained from saying anything more when a couple of students passed by them on the hallway.

"I believe you underestimate his character." Sherlock commented, once the intruders were out of hearing range. The whole point of this conversation was to be discreet and a known secret would do good to none of them. "But you know him better than I do." He said as he stuffed his hands inside his coat, no longer in need of being intimidating once that he had obtained what he wanted. And that was the only reason he had backed down, not because the truth of the fact made him oddly sick to his stomach.

"So, what now?" She asked, placing her hands on her hips and looked around to their surroundings. "I don't go to John or his parents and you stay quiet?" The proposal came quickly, and quite efficiently; Sherlock could appreciate that decisive attitude, he had a feeling she would not be intolerable were she not attempting to send them packing.

"You're quick to try and make a deal with a villain you just accused, quite passionately, of planning to bring down your kingdom." He was swift to point out. He hoisted his slipping bag over his shoulder securely and started walking, completely done with hanging back and sorting her needs out. If she really wanted to tell John of their plan, she would; whether or not he spilled.

"Do not play with me, Holmes." Mary called out, rushing to meet him before he escaped out of sight. "What will happen to John? What will you do to him?" She grabbed his arm and turned him around; demanding an honest answer.

"You have my word," Sherlock started. He turned his head around to answer. "No harm will come to John Watson." He vowed, and surprised himself with the intensity with which he muttered each word.

"And I'm supposed to just trust that?" She asked, her crossed arms conveying how skeptical she was to that statement. Sherlock figured she really had no other choice but to believe it and he suspected she knew that too. "You're going to spare him just like that?" The blonde asked. "I suppose it could be convenient to have that sort of devotion available." She commented bitterly; The violet-haired boy looked on as she gathered her things to retreat.

"Protecting John has nothing to do with you or convenience." He reassured. John Watson was in no way a convenient aspect of his life; quite the opposite, if he weren't for him he knew exactly who he was and what to do. He was irritated of the way things had turned out; he was supposed to feel smug, satisfied of how he had managed to put her in a difficult place, but he didn't. The frown on Mary's face trying to calculate something he ignored. He began walking, but he stopped and stared at her once more. "Just one last thing," He said. "I am a terrible person," He would have to be an idiot not to see that about himself. "Callous, anyone's worst nightmare." He assured, but his expression conveyed no pleasure as it should have. "But what does it say about you that you are willing to put the realm at risk and let me get my way in order to protect your reputation?" The question left the princess dumbstruck, clutching the strap of her purse in apprehension. "I'd think about that." Sherlock advised, not completely sure of why he pointed out such thing; it wasn't as if it were his problem. He rounded back an retreated while he could still feel Mary's intense gaze on his back. He picked up his pace and hurried out of the scene, just as other students were starting to flood the hallway and she lost sight of his figure.

* * *

"Remember," Said Coach Adam as he motioned the players to leave the field and head for the locker room. "Training is cancelled for the remainder of the week for family day on Friday and the coronation this weekend." He explained, to the tired and muddy faces of teenagers grabbing towels and walking away eager for a shower. "But next week be ready to make up for the hours." He reminded, a satisfied grin greeting every student that past by him on his way.

The team dispersed and headed for their usual post-practice cleaning, the locker room bursting with loud conversation and howls of something or other among the boys. John sat on the bench and took a moment to breathe before he had to stand up again. Juggling school —and all its extracurricular activities— and his duties as soon reigning monarch was having a heavier toll on him than he had anticipated, yet the fact he could make a difference was worth it, he enjoyed every second of both and will continue to do so until that stage of his youth was done and his life as king demanded more time.

"This fortnight is going to be brutal." The blonde sighed, looking up at Greg, who was stuffing his jersey back into the quadrangular box of metal. The rebel eyed him and nodded his head. "Yeah…" He responded, yet his face showed more than just premature exhaustion for the upcoming activities. John frowned in confusion, he was aware that the week would be more busy for him than for anyone else in the kingdom, yet he supposed family day was going to be specially tough for his new friends. He made a mental note of making sure they didn't feel excluded in the festivities just because their families were going to be absent.

"But hey!" John exclaimed once the other sat down beside him. "We've got another match next Saturday and if we win we'll get to the semi-finals!" He said, in a very obvious attempt of cheering him up. However, the shadow hadn't really passed from his expression, but thankfully he at least seemed distracted away from it. The other didn't comment anything about the game, but the coronation seemed a subject of interest.

"Are you looking forward to Saturday?" Lestrade asked him, looking at him in such a strange way that it made John slightly uncomfortable. It wasn't at all like when Sherlock used his silver laser eyes to see right through you and you history —for John it was enjoyable for someone to want to find out more about him— but it was a despondent look that he had never seen Greg portray; he was usually so active and engaged.

"A little." John started. and stood up to take off his shirt and grab his bathing supplies. "Mainly nervous," John answered truthfully, "Being King is a lot of responsibility, you know?" He believed ceremonies and balls were not at all what being a ruler was about and he would prefer if he didn't really have to do the public speaking if he could avoid it.

"Not really." The other replied, staring at him expectantly. John turned around from his locker and smiled.

"Ha! I guess." He said, realising what an idiot he was. There was no way anyone could understand what he was going through. Not even his father, the current King. He had been made king way after he had been of age and finished his education —the incident with the witch and the curse aside— therefore he was alone with the weight over his shoulders. But perhaps these kids could sympathise a bit, their parents had been such a crucial and iconic imagery for violence and that was something hard to match or escape. "Listen, mate." John murmured, sitting down and hoping his new friend would really believe what he was about to convey. "I know it was really difficult for the three of you to settle here," He stated, his expression kind but not pitying in any way, Greg threw his towel over his own shoulder and shrugged as if uprooting them and trying to impose a new culture on them hadn't been a big deal. "But I'm glad you did." The prince said truthfully, smiling genuinely at how happy he felt at having them in his life for almost two moon cycles now.

A few seconds of pensive silence reigned their corner of the locker room, but he still waited for Greg to give him an answer, to acknowledge whether he also thought it had been a great idea. "Yes," Lestrade answered, the shadow coming back to his face and darkening his features. "Me too." He concluded.

* * *

The light had already gone out from the heavens. Night and the moon reigning in the sky for a few hours while the kingdom slept. Well, most of it anyway. The villain kids were huddled up in Irene's room —past the curfew, it is important to add— to scheme in advance every detail of their escape from Auradon with the wand. Laying everything down while they still had chance of tweaking the plan until it was perfect and everyone knew exactly what their role was.

"Okay," Sherlock said, pointing to a map of the Cathedral were the Coronation was to be executed. "We all know what this looks like." He assured, remembering just a few nights before when they had snuck in past bedtime to research the weak points and figure how the layout could work to their advantage once they succeeded in obtaining the magical artifact. "So, it'll be up on the dais under The Beast's spell jar, and we'll be entering from here." He paused and looked up to make sure the others were following. Irene nodded her head and Greg muttered a quiet 'okay' to show their agreement. However their faces weren't exactly excited or lined with mischievous satisfaction as they had been a few weeks prior. "I will be at the front, and you will be at the east balcony." The violet-haired boy said, scribbling notes and reminders on the sidelines for them to remember. "Okay, Lestrade?"

"Yes," The other was quick to answer, his arms were crossed but the leather gloves he usually wore had been long since discarded as the night progressed; Sherlock estimated they had been at it for more than three hours. "So, I find the limo so we can break the barrier," He recited for the umpteenth time, letting himself slump down on the chair in annoyance. "And, uh-" He stumbled over his words. "Get back on the island with the wand, I think?" Greg asked.

"You think?" The other snarled, lashing out after the gradually worse days he had been having for the past weeks. "We need to be sure." He explained, reminding the others of a venomous animal desperate to grab any prey he could. "This is difficult, one tiny slip and it all could go down in flames." And knowing Moriarty it definitely would. "We cannot afford any mistakes." He concluded, breathing heavily from his exaltation.

"Fine!" Irene replied, her manicured hands coming up in innocence; as if to show him they were not at fault of the hard situation they were in; the three of them were as trapped as the other.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, dusting off the outburst and focusing instead on being efficient. He bent down to retrieve something from his bag and presented the small item to his friend. "Irene," He said to The Woman while he placed the blood red lipstick inside her hand. "You will use this to take out the driver, just one kiss and she'll be out like a light."

"Finally, something fun." She muttered and placed the object inside her purse. Her down cast eyes didn't match the statement as well as she always did. Sherlock noticed this, and turned to observe the other friend at the end of the table, he had glanced at his Tourney gear approximately 3.4 times per 20 minutes. The boy sighed.

"You don't really have to do this." Sherlock commented, the pressure coming form both their parents was big, but the violet-haired boy wanted nothing to do with them basically feeling trapped with the situation. "You can repay the favours you owe me some other way." He said, knowing fully well they had just followed him, as they always did, since Sherlock acquired them cycles ago. He had picked Lestrade up as an asset to access a very strong wooden cupboard when they were still in their toddler cycles, letting him hang around after for convenience. And Irene, well, he had been nothing but a nightmare to her after her mother invited the whole isle to her seventh naming day anniversary but him. He had vowed to take revenge and it wasn't until they were pubescent when the opportunity presented. He bullied her into accompanying them to a 'mission' which in the end would have ended up being just a trap to humiliate her; he had refrained from it at the last minute, remembering what had happened with _'E'_ and he let it go; Since then, she had been trying to repay his small blip of kindness.

Both of the others looked at him as if he had magically grown a second head. Irene's expression changing quickly between confusion, surprise and recognition. "So you and Moriarty can get all the fun?" She asked in a very amused tone. "Oh, no Mister." The woman said, crossing her legs nonchalantly and letting him know that in no way would she let him do this on his own.

"Yeah!" Came Lestrade's voice, catching on with what his friend was weaving. "You think we don't know what you're doing?" He asked as he stood almost a head taller to the younger boy. "Noup. You're stuck with us." He motioned, as if there would be no other alternative. Sherlock's wide open eyes shined silver against the moonlight. They had been present with him for so long, but he had never really anticipated this attitude. "No matter what." Greg commented, defiance present in his stance as stars in that clear night sky.

Sherlock smiled sideways in satisfaction. "Very well," He said with an air of competent authority, trying hard to mask how surprised and, dare he say, pleased with their reaction he felt. Maybe there would be one good, untainted thing to come out of this mess after all.

After that, they dispersed a bit about her room. Attempting to clear their heads enough to continue with everything else they still had to get through over and over again. As Lestrade sprawled back on Irene's bed for a rest, Sherlock flipped the pages of his Spell Book in order to find the one he had stopped himself from bookmarking in mere sulky attitude. The swirling letters on the page made nothing for the apprehension he felt inside as he read them and stored them in his mind palace for later; he most definitely could not ruin this particular enchantment.

"Sherl?" Irene said from behind his chair, eyeing at the name and functionality of the potion he was memorizing how to concoct. "You want to break John's love spell?" She asked horrified, as if the mere thought of the curly-haired wanting to do that seemed as unfathomable as paradise itself.

Said boy jumpily startled around as if caught, mumbling a few incoherent phrases before settling on a real answer. "You know, for after." He explained, yet the weak undertone to his voice was never going to convince Irene, and he knew it. "I don't-" He began saying, but stopped himself before whatever was going to come out actually made it alive. "I've been thinking," He explained." "When the villains finally do invade Auradon and begin to loot, and kick every snotty royal out of their castles, and imprisoned all the leaders, and destroy all that is good and beautiful," The woman crossed her arms as he listed the foreseeable scenarios. Her clever gaze roaming over his expression and gauging the real intention with which he said them. "John still being in love with me just seems a bit extra…" The violet-haired boy paused, biting his lower lip in a last attempt from his brain to not allow his mouth to say it. "Cruel." He concluded, and the words tasted foreign in his head. He was not yet sure whether he would fall over in distress or not. The boy decided he could not continue on with the conversation, instead he turned around and proceeded storing measurements and techniques into the proper chamber inside his mind, actively ignoring Irene when she muttered questioningly —and quite worried, which she never was— his name at least three separate times, but to no avail; Sherlock had finished the exchanged and he didn't feel like he would be able to complete it.

The girl turned around and motioned Lestrade to approach the table again so they could finally continue after the short break. They had a long night ahead of them.

* * *

The same almost morning found Sherlock in the kitchen again; and this time he was alone. Absent-mindedly —which was quite uncommon for him to do anything without intense focus— whisking a few ingredients into a bowl, and staring off into nothingness. The book of spells was next to him at the counter opened on a page titled _'breaking of love spells'_ and detailing every step of the procedure to make John Watson stop loving him once and for all.

This time he wasn't able to even try to fight off feeling like a terrible fraud or ignore the growing disease he felt inside him. His own guts chocking and leaving him gasping for air as he silently sobbed, with only half a mind to let none of the stray tears fall into the mix. Well, none but his reflexion glinting in the surface of the dragon sword between his hands.

* * *

 **Author's note: My poor Sherlock. What do you think he should do to fix this?**

 **Let me know in the comments.**


	9. Chapter 8: Infamous Among Mortals

**Chapter 8: Infamous Among Mortals**

O _ne who is infamous is often regarded as such because of some criminal, scandalous, or shameful act being realised by the subject, be it real or perceived. Infamy gives the person an extreme and publicly known bad reputation and strong condemnation, which can be a lot useful when carrying out other bad deeds._

The time was drawing near, and Moriarty was impatient to just see his plan realised. It was so close he could almost taste the flavor of victory. He sat next to his gunman —even if he had no qualms with killing, he disliked the mess most of the time— and a few other villains who would want claim over Lady Hudson's wand, once it was retrieved. James called them all there to invite them to reconsider.

The hall was big, yet only a few seats were taken; James had built a vast network working under the watchful eye of the King and the Royal Council, and he was cautious not to compromise any of the vital parts of his organisation for this; after all, once he rose to power he would need idiots to do all the little, menial parts of the job he so dreaded while he was busy having the best time. It wouldn't be wise to have such fun _before_ his plans were secured; well, at least not too much fun.

"The moment of our vengeance is getting near," He started, rotating the chair on which he was seated. A huge grin over his face as his sharp navy suit was soaking up the light from the chandelier above them. "So, I have brought you all here to celebrate our impending victory." Jim exclaimed, swinging his legs over the armrest and sitting sideways at his make-shift throne.

The multiple faces around the table were looking at him with a mixture of confusion and enjoyment; they may not be too happy that James always seemed to be the one who got to luxuriate in any goods or glory that were obtained with the organisation they all helped keep running, but they are surely ecstatic to be present for the festivities in its honour.

"Now," Jim said, standing up and taking steps to circle around the grand table. "As you all may know I have the son of Violet Holmes over there right now, ready to seize the most delicious prize for me." His thick fingers were tracing the back of each chair, walking in such a sinister way that his guests fell uncertain of whether to be amused or terrified. "And soon the power will be back where it belongs." He said, his black eyes shining green by moments. Sebastian Moran, the greatest, most brutal of marksman, sat at the head of the table right next to his abandoned seat; silently smiling with the rows of unnaturally perfect teeth. James smirked the second he saw his expression.

"I'm sure you're all wondering _'oh! what does that mean for me'?_ " He exclaimed, his voice fluctuating between accents and volumes. The change was nothing short of horrifying. "But no worries, I assure you all will get what you deserve." The somber tone he adopted then, seemed a stark and strange contrast from the cheery and almost girly one he had previously.

It seemed the manner of its delivery was far less important to the villains than the actual words, since they erupted in cheers and claps, extraneously delighted by the mere idea. Moriarty smiled benignly, as he slowed down his pace and took to greet and celebrate with each member of their small gathering. He had no doubts they would try to usurp the crown from him the second he acquired it, no matter how invested they all seemed now.

"And what about those little rats?" One of them asked, clearly not trusting his interests would be completely satisfied were they in the need to share power with scrawny teenagers.

The villain waved a hand in dismissal, pursing his lips as if the mere mention of them was a complete waste of his time; he was very aware that those kids —mainly Sherlock, the other two were nothing short of useless— were the only opportunity he had of getting that which he desired, yet he didn't believe they would demand that much maintenance. Sherlock was highly competent for evil deeds, and would surely prove a useful pupil and ally in the conquering of the kingdom, and if not…well, it wasn't as if he was his actual son. "I wouldn't concern myself with them if I were you." He said, to which the other just replied with a confused frown. "The stupid little things are too boring even for you to think about." Moriarty explained, he smiled and continued walking.

"Oh, it will be so fabulous," The villain clapped his hands in excitement, basking in the cheers and laughs he could hear surrounding him, delighting in the fact that they wouldn't be smiling for much longer. "It's almost sad some of you won't get to see it," He said as he came to stand directly beside the leader of the squirmy little so-called-villains. The face of those present were beginning to morph into worry as they exchanged looks between them, clearly wondering whether they would do better to run. "But, oh well," James continued before they could actually stand up or do anything else. There was a poignant silence in the hall, as everyone froze in fear, waiting, until the face of the pack's leader began turning baffled. His breathing ragged as he looked down to his abdomen in distress, where a spot of red was slowly growing right at the center of it.

"Oops." Moriarty muttered, fake remorse painting his expression. Once the others understood what had happened they jumped standing, ready to attack the traitor who stabbed their boss so carelessly, but Sebastian was quick to wave a hand gun at their direction, warning them off from attempting anything stupid. James slid out the dagger from the other's back and gazed transfixed at the hot red blood gathered on its blade. He repeated the stabbing motion a few times over for good mention. He did hate the mess, but only an idiot left their victim half-killed.

Once they all had been convinced to sit back down again, Jim quickly walked back to his place and took a seat with all the grace and flair of a carnival king. The others present were stuck in horror and staring at him with shaking jaws and scared big, wide, eyes. "Unless you want to end up like cheese guy over there," He said motioning to the man covered in holes and bent over the table lifelessly, bleeding abundantly unto the floor. "From now on, you will do what I say." He concluded, to which the others took a brief moment to start nodding their reluctant heads in agreement. "Now, let's eat!" Moriarty exclaimed, smiling and motioning to his guests to _get the hell on with it_. Once shaking hands and frightened fingers started raising shining cutlery to mouths, James picked up his own fork and cut off a piece of pork, placed it on his tongue and smiled at the stale taste.

* * *

At around 11 p.m. on Thursday night John heard a soft knock on the door to his chambers. He tied his plush blue dressing gown tightly around his waist and went to find out who could need him at that hour. What greeted him was not at all what he had expected.

"Molly?" He asked at the sight of the short girl smiling up at him —at least there was someone in this kingdom shorter than he was— and invited his friend in; he wasn't going to let her standing on the hallway at this hour. "What's up?" He asked, smiling as he sat on his bed and motioned Molly to sit wherever she liked.

However, the girl remained standing, too keyed up to actually stay still for more than two seconds, it was mildly distressing for the prince to see her so anxious.

"I know we had agreed to let pets attend family day tomorrow." She said, rushing over the words as if the sole moments she would be wasting in proper punctuation would be valuable. "But Carlos is demanding places for him and his more than a hundred dogs and I simply don't know where to put them," Her big brown eyes were open wide and the desperate expression over her features made nothing to ease John's whiplash. "And what if they start running and-"

"Molly-" The prince stopped her, placing his strong hands over her shoulders to snap her out of her tirade. "Molly, breathe." He said, smirking reassuringly and demonstrating how to breathe as a normal individual. The girl halted and took deeper and deeper breaths, smiling at him in gratitud and nodding her head as a sign of her new-found calm. "Don't worry," John started, "I'm sure Mrs. Lin would be more than happy to take them on while they serve lunch." He said, completely aware that he would have to ask her himself; but it was no big deal, he was glad to help his friend, she had been very stressed out planning the events of the sun-cycle —the coronation, mainly— and a new style of hair would never change her out of her neurotic personality.

"Really?" She asked, hope painting across her in such an obvious way that the blonde couldn't help but chuckle; He nodded only to watch her break out in the biggest grin.

"I'll speak to her tomorrow." John commented as he took a seat back on his bed. Molly sighed in relief and sat down on one of his armchairs in exhaustion. She leaned back and closed her eyes, clearly ready to drop into a slumber right there on his sofa.

"Thank you." She said, and then fell silent; John watched her for a moment, waiting for her to come back to life. After a few seconds, she was startled awake and quickly stood up. Looking more alive than ever before. John pondered for a moment if that endless energy had anything to do with her fairy heritage. "Oh, and I'll need your speech first thing in the morning." She commented, dusting off her baby blue dress and heading back from the door. Crisis apparently averted.

Which was not exactly true for John, who had completely forgotten he was supposed to write a speech and now had about eight hours to get it done and he had no idea where he was expected to start. "Oh, yes." He said, and he hoped he sounded far more confident than he actually felt, he knew Molly would not take too kindly if she were to find out a tiny detail could be what brought down all her work. "Yes, totally." John smiled, attempting to convey how there was no reason for her to worry whatsoever.

"Perfect." She beamed and turned to exit his chambers. However, she seemed to change her mind and stopped just as she was about to leave, she turned around and her expression was suddenly cautious and nervous, as if she were not really sure she should do what she was about to. "John, can I ask you something?" She asked, threading her fingers through the keychains attached to her bag.

"Of course." The other responded, now curious to the topic which could have his friend so hesitant.

"Was it hard?" She asked, only for John to turn and look at her in confusion. Her eyes not betraying her true meaning. "What you did for Sherlock and the others?" She explained, twirling her long brunette hair to distract herself.

The prince regarded her question for a moment, questioning the veracity of what he was about to answer, finding it the sole reality. "Not really," He responded truthfully, "It's more a matter of what's right." His hand came up to run his fingers through his golden strands.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think it was very brave." Molly commented, smiling softly. John didn't think it had anything to do with being brave, but it still was pleasing for someone to believe what you were doing had any weight. "And they must be very grateful." She said, and John, in turn, would be incredibly grateful were they to agree with her on that matter.

"I hope so." He said, and the girl nodded in understanding. Clutching her notebook to her chest and making her goodbyes to leave. Once the door swung closed behind her, John let out another sigh. Repeating the words, like they had also been a revelation for him. "God, I hope so."

* * *

If Auradon knew how to do something, that was planning incredible events for parents and family. Gatherings where recreational culture was the norm. That said more about the place and its citizens, than its history and politics ever could.

It was mid-morning, and the ever-bright sun was shinning down over the gardens and rooftops of the kingdom. The lawn behind the main building of the school was covered with stylish white tents and the tables placed in rows had flowing cloths and soft gold and blue decorations. A breathtaking event with a variety of flowers arranged over the surfaces and up the posts of the tents.

The families were already gathering near the tables, each of the attendees attempting to find their seat and some of them even making their way to the catering already. Some students acted as an escort to their places for the parents and others made sure their glasses were always topped with the richest of fruit juices and the finest champagne.

A group of students —mainly the Welcoming Committee, the Student Body and the Royal Court of Youth— were greeting the guests with big warm smiles and making sure everything ran smoothly and perfectly. Events like these have been a tradition for several cycles since the kingdom was united. After The War of Light, the royals felt it was important to give weight to values and familial bonds once more; it didn't really matter that the victory had been theirs from very early on, the war had left the magical realms fractured and scarred beyond what they had anticipated. So, a custom was made of gatherings were loyalty was celebrated.

John stood at the podium, watching everyone move about their assigned tasks. He tapped the microphone to make sure it worked properly before he spoke into the device. "Hello everyone," He exclaimed, the biggest and brightest smile gracing his features. "It's with the deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you all today." His eyes shone as they scanned the happy faces of the crowd. As of tomorrow they would all become his subjects, and him, their official king. He failed to determine whether that made him more nervous or giddy, so he settled for reciting the speech Sherlock had helped him write over the phone at two in the morning the night prior. "And now I invite you to relax," He paused and breathed as if demonstrating what he meant. "Pull up a chair, and we will proudly present your meal!" At this, the different groups of students started bringing out plates and plates of deliciously looking food and fancy cutlery to match the refinement of the dishes.

"We are so thrilled to share with you a morning filled with entertainment and cheer," John continued, his tone calm but pleasing to the ear; talking to a crowd had never been his strong suit, yet these people were soon going to be as his family, and speaking easy and honestly to them would be a skill he would do well to acquire early on if he wanted to rule them justly. "As a thank you for welcoming me into the kingdom." The words his boyfriend and him had crafted together were perfect for the message he had wanted to convey. He felt it was important to highlight the fact that celebrations were not meaningless, that they always had a deeper purpose. After he saw most of the heads nod in acknowledgement of his gratefulness he decided to be concise and let actions speak for him. "And now, I know you didn't come here to hear me speak," The prince joked, and a few voices of laughter were heard across the gardens. "So, let's dig in!" With that, he stepped back from the microphone and walked away to look for his own family and friends.

He strolled past a few tables, spotting some of his friends in the distance; Molly and her grandmother, Prince Murray talking to a girl he had never seen before; but what made him stop was when encountered a group of contrastingly dark-clothed kids. He smiled and approached faster; _finally,_ they were there.

Irene greeted him first, smirking and congratulating him for the speech he hadn't even written, —he had no doubt she knew exactly who was responsible for it— and Lestrade made a show of roughhousing him as mates often did when excited; John returned all of the above, yet his eyes were always trained on the third figure standing back from the exchange; waiting confidently, yet reluctant in his black trousers and white dress shirt, his kaleidoscope eyes changing as he analysed the scene around him, looking at him and arching a mocking eyebrow at all the formalities happening at their proximity.

Irene and Greg seemed to notice such looks, because they made their excuses quite quickly and left them alone as soon as they had addressed each other. "So, what do you think?" John asked, taking certain steps towards the taller figure in front of him. "Your very first royal event." Was the explanation. Sherlock smiled playfully and turned his head as if to assess what exactly he thought of the situation.

After a considerable time, he returned to gaze at the prince and shrugged. "It's…different." He said, his full lips pursing, trying to convey the disgust he really felt at that specific type of _different._ John laughed at the expression his boyfriend was portraying, the corners of his blue eyes wrinkling in delight.

"Well, I'm glad you're here." He commented and looped an arm around his to lead him away from the crowd and next to the dessert table where he knew he would find the exact delicacy he had been very adamant at having at this celebration. The violet-haired boy arched an eyebrow in appreciation once he noticed the vast array of strawberry pastries in varying fashions. Propped on the middle, they even had a beautiful chocolate fountain and berry skewers which Sherlock was quick to deem the most delectable and was soon reaching his arm for one.

"Yes," He answered, smiling back to John in gratefulness for the gesture; the blonde knew the 'coincidence' of why there happened to be so many dishes with his taste preferences would not be lost on the rebel, there was no getting past his amazing intellect. "Well, I-" Sherlock started, but was interrupted by John spotting his parents getting their picture taken. The King and Queen looking royally pleasant in their fancy chairs and incredible hand-crafted gown and suit.

"My parents." The prince explained, as if Sherlock didn't posses eyes, and wasn't able to recognise a face he had seen plastered around the Isle every day of his life. "You have to meet them," John continued, already walking towards them. "Wait here a bit, please." His eyes were pleading, conveying his desire to speak with them before introducing him; Sherlock shrugged in acceptance yet his face looked as if the idea was the furthest item on his long list of desirable things.

"Oh, okay."He muttered, and opted instead for taking a big bite of the red piece of heaven already bathed with rich brown chocolate.

John approached his parents and posed with them for a few pictures. "Oh, that was lovely, John." His mother had commented, enveloping him in her thin arms and fondly patting a cheek with her golden gloves as if he were still a kid.

"Thanks, mum." He mumbled, trying to escape from her dotting grip. "By the way," He said, trying to pose for the camera and look princely while breaking the news to his parents. "I brought someone." He said, and his dad's face broke out into a big grin; he, above anyone else, wished to see him married and with a proper family a few cycles after ascending to the throne ' _good for the people of the realm'_ he said. However, he never realised that, although John cared deeply and honestly for his kingdom, he would marry if and when, —and whom— he wished, whether it was proper for the realm or not.

"Oh, John!" King Ben exclaimed, manly patting him on the back and smiling for yet another photograph. "I didn't know you had a new girlfriend." He commented, as John shifted in nervousness.

"Not exactly," The blonde said, looking to the crowd where he had left Sherlock waiting. He looked so terribly out of place among the cheery and pastel-coloured people. He should introduce him before he managed to eat his way through all the strawberries in what John could describe as anxiousness.

"Do we know her?" His mum asked, attempting to spot the young woman he must be seeking for in the sea of faces; pointedly missing the fact of one of her search factors being exceedingly wrong.

"No." John answered in seriousness; catching the expressive silver eyes with his own and motioning his boyfriend over to them. " _He,_ " The prince was adamant to stress. "Is over there, Sherlock?"

As the boy was approaching, John could watch the expressions on his parents' faces transform, going from delighted to dumbfounded; as if they weren't able to comprehend what the young lad walking towards them meant.

"Sherlock, I would like to introduce you to my parents." John announced proudly, placing a hand over the other's waist to guide him and encourage him to get closer to them. "This is Sherlock Holmes." He turned to his mum and dad, as they slowly came back to their minds and extended their hands in greeting. "My boyfriend."

"Hello." His mother was the first one to recover, always keen on not judging a book by it's precedence —although that axiom always seemed to be suspended when it came to the Island.

The violet-haired boy smiled sideways, clearly struggling to appear nice and warm to the monarchs. "Good morning," He said in a polite tone John had never heard him use in the seven weeks he had known him. Queen Harriet smiled and elbowed his father to at least nod and acknowledge the presence of the boy in front of them.

The blonde observed his partner, watching out for any indication of looking more uncomfortable that the scene warranted. "I was thinking he could join us for lunch." He said, not really leaving room for argument, he needed his parents to see that Sherlock and the other kids from The Isle of the Lost, were not in fact lost causes, but very great kids with the potential of being something extraordinary.

"Of course," The king commented, "Any friend of John's." He said, yet his face didn't seem to convey the same conviction. John was pleased with the developments, he had been aware his parents would not automatically approve of him, but he was glad they were acting so understanding towards him; perhaps this lunch could help convince them of what a marvel Sherlock actually was.

"I actually came with my friends." Sherlock said, pointing to where Irene was amusedly watching Lestrade hoover his way through the canapé's table. The prince smiled fondly at both, the joy on his new-found friends, and the fact that Sherlock had referred to them as such. It appeared he had lost that formality he had at the beginning and had come to accept them for what they really were; this was a fact that John suspected not even the rebel himself was aware of.

His mother opened her arms in invitation, making an effort to be open and approachable. "They should joins us, too." She said, and his dad nodded in agreement, going to lengths for their son and his ideals even if they didn't share them.

Irene and Greg were being summoned by one of the escorts and Sherlock took a deep breath in relief, maybe not being the only new one would give him a sense of stability. "How about a game of Melee before dessert is served?" His dad offered, and the blonde boy grinned at his boyfriend's surprised face, as if he were not anticipating being invited to participate in any activity with someone who by all means did hold a level of animosity towards him, if only indirectly. "Of course," He had assented, but then his expression became a tad panicked.

After his parents had turned to go to their table at the centre of the tents, John hanged behind to have a few seconds alone with Sherlock. "Do you know how to play?" He asked, his tone kind and not at all mocking. The other grimaced but still managed to look indifferent at the whole debacle.

"I' sure the rules are quite basic," He responded. "As everything else in this kingdom." His voice was leaden with the sort of arrogance John always struggled not to find hilarious. Sherlock was stroppy as no one he had encountered before —his sister included.

"Lock?" He said, halting their pace and standing in front of him to ensure he was looking at him when he spoke. "Don't worry," He said, watching as Sherlock's expression fluctuated between outrage and sulk. "I'll teach you." John assured, to which the other just took a moment to sigh and nod. Not entirely comfortable with having to be helped in any way. The prince smiled in fondness as they resumed walking towards where his mum and dad were already seated waiting for them all at their places. John beamed at the scene unfolding in front of him. The day couldn't be better.

* * *

The day couldn't be worse.

Or at least that's what Sherlock thought when he found himself standing at the center of an expanse of grass between stupid people doing nothing more than socialising and smiling as if their lives depended on it. The rebel took a moment to wonder what happened once the day was done and they got home, did they unscrew said cheerful expressions? Or had they become frozen like that after so much time faking them?

The only upside to said sunny, loud nightmare was that he was not alone in the torture, Irene and Greg had tagged along as much as they could without looking suspicious, to offer a gloomy respite from all the happiness. John was there, with his shiny blue eyes and a suit that had clearly been chosen for him for that very occasion. Sherlock decided not to dwell too much on his presence, regardless of how much he was drawn to it; since, for him, it was a whole other source of distress. His existence both the problem and the solution to something he did not wish to think about. Needless to say, the violet-haired boy was just weary of the dichotomy.

"Hey!" Greg could be heard exclaiming in the distance. Apparently very skilled in whatever was the sport they were supposed to be playing. "Nice!" He said, sharing a triumphant grin with the prince and greeting some other player. Sherlock couldn't honestly be bothered to try and understand the twisted logistics of the game, and chose instead to observe them all from the sidelines, contributing little to the activities.

"Hello there." He heard the soft, high-pitched voice coming from his left. A femenine tone from a mature, blonde lady.

"Hello." Sherlock responded, a calculating frown appearing on his forehead as he regarded the small, old woman beside him. She looked vaguely recognisable, as if some part of him knew who she was despite the fact that they had never encountered each other before.

"Excuse me, have we met?" She asked, a polite quality to her question. The boy watched her more closely, trying to figure out the connection. The similarity was apparently not one-sided. "You seem familiar."

"I highly doubt it," The curly-haired boy replied. He arched an eyebrow, clutching the club inside his grip a tad more tightly at the dread of having to speak to other people, no matter how enigmatic. "I'm new here," He said, finding he couldn't possibly just summarise the real reason why he was standing there at the moment. He was still reeling at the velocity at which the events of the last moon cycles had taken place, not to mention it was in his best interest to stay mum about the whole situation. "A transfer student, if you will."

In that moment another figure made its way towards them. Quickly running and hurling her petite frame to that of the older woman. "Grammy!" Mary exclaimed, hugging her relative in excitement as her companion trailed slowly behind her.

"Oh, Mary, you look so lovely." The woman replied, running her hands through Mary's hair in fondness. The resemblance, now that he had something to which compare it, was uncanny, the small nose and big eyes impossible to miss.

"Aunt Margaret!" Commented Sally Donovan, who was, moments prior, walking and chatting with Mary before she decided to make a run for it. Sherlock knew they title 'Aunt' was more for show than any actual blood relation. Their two families had been friends for years. "So nice to see you." She said in that nosy tone of hers and hugged the older lady with much fondness.

"Grammy." Sherlock stated more than asked. His deduction skills not necessary when it came to pinpointing exactly who this woman was. His face was still surprised, though. He never imagined he would encounter Queen Margaret on this event. Or anywhere else, for that matter; it had never crossed his mind that one day he may have to deal with she whom his mother had wronged so spectacularly in the past.

"Yes, from my mother's side." Mary explained, ironing out her perfect rose-coloured skirt and looking at Sherlock carefully. He could tell his presence made her nervous, still wondering whether he was capable of letting the cat out of the bag right there, in front of everybody. He certainly could, that was not a question, yet he found causing a scene was the last thing he wanted considering his big showdown was less than 24 hours away.

"Aunt Marge, I don't think you should be talking to this guy." Sally said, crossing her arms and staring at him in animosity. Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent, watching John still playing whatever Melee was. "Unless you feel like taking another hundred-cycle-nap." Donovan commented nastily, while Mary looked on in apprehension from behind them.

"What? Why?" The lady said, turning her frail figure to gaze more closely at Sherlock. The boy stood straighter, not ready to be deemed unworthy of anyone's time; if nothing else, they would know against whom they were planning on going. "You! I'd recognise those venomous eyes anywhere." Margaret exclaimed in recognition as she took a frightened step back, the fear inside her expression obvious even from far-away lands. "Where is your mother?" She asked, apparently not completely aware there was no way his mother would be able to be there.

"Queen Marge, it's alright." John suddenly appeared at his side, as if he had seen what was happening and had rush back to help. "Violet is gone. This is her son, Sherlock." He said, and the violet-haired boy had to ignore the way in which his name was worded by his boyfriend; there was no time for sentimentalism when he was staring down a threat. "Don't you remember my proclamation to give the new generation an opportunity?" The blonde explained, but it was clear his words were not having the desired effect on the lady standing there, looking for all the world as if the universe were ending right in front of her eyes.

"An opportunity to do what, exactly? Destroy us?" She snarled, her perfect, white teeth bared in a surprisingly savage manner. "You all remember, don't you?" She turned around, addressing the adults present, specially the King and Queen, who had already gathered close to find out more about the commotion. "The poison apples, the curses?" That last word had more weight for John's father than Sherlock had anticipated, he had been ignorant on how affected the prince's family still was at his father's previous beastly condition. "My daughter was raised by fairies because of your mother." Margaret said, while Sally was smirking at his left, her smile growing with every sentence uttered. "Her first words, her firsts steps, I missed them all." She turned around and placed a hand over her eyes when recalling the sadness she felt for that.

The guests present looked on in interest. Witness to the argument as if it concerned them. Unapologetic voyeurs of the chaos. Looking at him in disapproval as if he really were at fault of all that. "I told them not to trust them." Donovan was joined by her companion in staring in dislike and the both of them were enjoying it beyond measure. Anderson pursed his lips in a delighted grimace at the events unfolding.

"I apologise for my mother's actions-" Sherlock began saying, even if he really had no bearing of guilt over them, he felt the lady warranted something other than derision for her tragedy. Yet, he was not able to finish since, when he was about to place an out-of-character reassuring hand on the woman's shoulder, Philip pushed him back forcefully.

"Stay away from her!" He yelled, placing his body in front of Margaret in protection from an attack that hadn't come. Sherlock took a step back, startled by the animosity. Irene and Greg had already arrived to stand next to their friend and were utterly outraged.

"Anderson, don't." John intervened, standing between them and casting a worried look over to the violet-haired boy. Silently, he asked for a sign that he was alright. Sherlock nodded, but wasn't quite sure how much he believed it. Irene crossed her arms and looked ready to fling herself to attack in retaliation.

"What?" Philip asked, feigning innocence; as if it weren't his fault, as if they were forcing him do such a petty thing just by being themselves. Sherlock was torn between feeling distressed and enraged. "They were raised by their parents, John." He continued, his eyes shinning madly with passion over this statement. Lady Hudson took his arm to calm him, yet he was so in trance he didn't even noticed when he shook it off. "What do you think they're trying to do here? Contribute to society?" The questions were not exactly a surprise for the rebels, yet the violent and adamant way in which he was uttering them made something inside them snap.

"Anderson." John warned once he saw the expression shadowing over Sherlock's face. His tone was no longer appeasing, but stern with a subtle hint of danger underneath. He looked at Philip and Sally in a way Sherlock had never seen him look at anything before. He would be lying if he said it wasn't fascinating to watch such fire burning inside someone he already found —against his better judgement— interesting. It was almost enough to distract him away from Philip and his moronic accusations.

"You've seen what he does, his magic." Sally interjected, and Mary reached out a hand to stop her, to just let the matter drop —even if she had made the exact same accusation a few days prior— but the other would not be persuaded, it appeared that she had finally found an opportunity to voice all her objections with them and their presence in the kingdom. "He stole your boyfriend!" She stated, not comprehending the reason why Mary didn't seem to be on board with them burning for what they had done. Sherlock bit his lip in apprehension, the day was past ruined, he had no desires of dragging _this_ into the light too. Not when that subject was already distressing.

"Well, it's true!" Anderson said. His frown deepened as he looked at his adversaries. Greg clenched his fists to stop himself from punching the daylights out of him, but figured it would be so much worse if he did. The desire was there, though.

Donovan nodded in agreement, her expression bearing a nasty smile. "It's only a matter of time 'till they become exactly like their parents." She commented, eyeing Sherlock with smugness. The boy blinked and frowned, without really knowing what to do. He had never reacted like that before, and it was very confusing finding himself out of words. Not being able to even defend himself and completely frozen in surprise.

The crowd gathered around them appeared alarmed at the scene more than at the things they had supposedly —actually had— done. The sun beating down on them turning from warm to brutal. "You're a jerk." Irene snarled, her olive green slanting in loathing. John moved to look at her, clearly not wanting this to escalate any more than it already had.

This for Anderson was like his name-day come early, for he turned to her in delight. "Oh and you!" He said, pointing a finger to his target."You're nothing but a pathetic gold digger and a cheater!" Philip yelled, completely forgetting the fact that he had gone along with it for several days. The girl with the indigo hair took a step forward in defiance. She reached inside her purse for her mirror but John waved at both of them to stop.

"Back off, Anderson. Alright?" The blonde ordered. John was furious, seething at Anderson and protecting them as if they were his to defend. Forsaking any princely behaviour in honest anger. Sherlock struggled to keep his breathing under control, feeling a surge of impulsiveness grow inside him he needed to quiet down as quickly as possible. He had never experienced that white burning inside his veins and he failed to anticipate what it would breed.

"How can you not see it, John?" The other questioned, disbelief present in every part of his body, his tiny mind not being able to wrap around the fact that John somehow trusted them. To be true, Sherlock hated to admit —even to himself— that even with his massive intellect he didn't quiet understand it either. "Bloody psychopaths," He continued. "And this freak-" Said regarding Sherlock, yet he never got to finish the sentence since Greg took the two strides needed and punched him right on the jaw. Anderson reeled back in pain, and the crowd around them gasped. Mary caught him as much as she could to prevent his descent into the floor. Greg shook off his hand but grinned in satisfaction at what he had done. Which was probably a good thing, because had he not done the honours, Sherlock was sure John would have, and that would have brought on more problems than they could deal with. The rebel knew it was not worth it for John to lose the faith of his kingdom for this; for _him_.

"He is insane!" Sally exclaimed, as she knelt next to Philip and tried to bring him back to consciousness. The commotion extended to everyone present. Some of them backing away to escape the possible line of fire of any curse or violence that could take place, and others ready to voice their opinion on the matter.

"Let's go." Irene pushed Sherlock's inert body into moving, quickly walking through the planes of grass and through the tents, both followed by Lestrade. The violet-haired boy coming to enough to at least dodge the chairs and tables. The three of them left them all behind. Sherlock supposed it was for the best that he hadn't allowed himself to respond in any way, an impulsive curse would probably had been a very bad idea.

"Sherlock!" John screamed after his retreating figure, very worried about the boy. Frustrated beyond belief about the events that had happened. When he realised Sherlock was not coming back, he sighed and deflated, the anger slowly leaving his body to be replaced with disappointment. This was not how he had wished this day would go. So much for trying to make them feel included. He turned to look at his parents, standing aside with Lady Hudson and a frightened Queen Margaret, hoping to find sympathy or understanding.

"I feared something like this would happen." His father said, adjusting the shirt cuffs in a pensive manner. The statement made fire return to the prince's blood, refusing to accept a member of his family thinking that about his new friends.

"This isn't their fault!" He said, and turned to them in demand. He was starting to feel as if something was really wrong with his kingdom.

"No, son:" His father said with a sad tone. Staring at him with blue eyes the same as his own, but his gaze conveyed much more weariness at the world. "It's yours." With that, both the king and queen turn to exit. He was left there, standing still against the crowd of people judging him for being so careless. John adjusted his tie, bravely resigned to his fate and no caring how much of a failure they could think he was now for doing the right thing. He walked away with sure steps and his head held high.

* * *

The sun was already going down, and Sherlock wished for nothing but for the day to end. Now that he had had time to process and catalogue the events of the afternoon, he was left with a feeling of unsatisfied outrage, a true wrath that he felt was ready to burst out of him at any second.

The three of them were gathered on a table outside the school, silently seated between the rustling of the trees, attempting to wrap their minds around it all. None of them knowing quite how to feel at the conflicting emotions with which it left them. They stared at one another, but remained silent.

"How is everyone?" Said the voice of Prince John Watson, coming to stand behind Sherlock and placing both hands over the boy's shoulders in affection. He slowly rubbed them as if he were able to erase what happened just by sheer motion. The rebel wished he actually could. "They are complete jerks, I'm sorry." He said with hopeful eyes, but the others remained quiet; they just nodded as if they had nothing else to add. "Don't listen to them." His voice was determined yet kind. Sherlock looked down to the table hoping to find answers in its surface, but he was certain he wouldn't find any, after all, inanimate objects did not posses the magical skill of fixing anyone's problems. "Tomorrow after the coronation everything will be fine." John was ignorant to how much he was adding insult to injury with that statement but he could notice the violet-haired boy tensing. His own hands gripped the arms below him a bit more strongly, as if to convey a message of support. "I have to go," His apologetic tone was recognisable, as was his worry, and despite his previous words, he stayed rooted to the spot, waiting for a sign that his new friends would not despair or disappear. "Will you be alright?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded dumbly, and John sighed and bent down to give him a brief kiss on the cheek; before waving at Greg and Irene and walking away. Silence reigned once more, but it was incredibly short-lived, since they could hear several voices approaching in the distance. The violet-haired boy rolled his eyes in exasperation, but the motion had lost all its sting by the blinking away of the moisture gathered around his eyes, he needed to get rid of those stupid feelings as soon as possible.

"How long does he think it will last?" Anderson wondered out loud, not at all subtle in his attempts for the kids to hear him. His stupid group of friends laughed and mocked while they were walking by. "For now Sherlock is just the bad boy infatuation, it will fade soon enough." His face was conveying a giant smirk. Greg seemed ready to attack him again, but Irene shook her head and placed a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Yes, like John's ever going to make a villain his monarch." Sally commented, pushing her curling brown hair back. She stopped and said the words directly to him, and the violet-haired boy had to take a deep breath in order to ignore her. "How pathetic." They started retreating after that, but their questionable doubt lingered on, and Sherlock found he could no longer wait on the sidelines anymore. He had never been good at behaving, and these morons had pushed his final button.

The rebel closed his eyes and let his stored deductions flow free. "So is that new underwear you put on for your study session with your cousin's boyfriend." He said, only to hear the sweet sound of laughter dying away into the void, being replaced by stunned nothingness.

Said girlfriend turned to regard them both in suspicion, only to get back to gazing at Sherlock, only this time there was a question in her eyes she didn't really have to ask. "Whatever the hell you're thinking…" Sally snarled, and Philip took a step back as if planning on fleeing, clearly it wouldn't be in his best interest to be present if the cousin actually found out about his sordid affair with Donovan.

"Oh, not to worry, though." Sherlock was quick to appease the girl. Smiling innocently at them as Greg and Irene stared on in obvious amusement. "At least it was not _all_ lies," He commented. "I mean, she _was_ teaching him something." The boy wasn't able to fight off the smirk anymore, raising his cunning eyes to stare challengingly at the snotty royals.

"I knew it!" The girl said, as she ran away furious. Philip made an apologetic gesture at Sally, but still left her behind to go chase after her cousin. Donovan's eyes shone in anger, and Sherlock felt complete again. He knew enough to recognise that this petty vengeance was something very bad indeed, but he concluded it was worth it a million times over by how good it felt seeing her frustrated expression.

"There is a lot more where that came from." He said, showing them all his Book of Spells and not caring in the least where that could lead them, he was way past caring about anything.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" One of them —the rebel couldn't be bothered to learn his name— uttered, and the boy still gazed at Sally, who was frozen in horror at her secret being found out.

"Oh, you know exactly who I am," Sherlock said as he took a step closer. "You said it yourself," He pushed the upper part of his body forward in intimidation; danger written all over his lithe frame. His whole presence growing more venomous by the second. "I'm just like my mother." He stated. He took a moment to shift his gaze to another figure in the group, Mary was staring at him, she was biting his lip with a frown deep in her forehead, he expression was completely unreadable, and Sherlock found he couldn't stand not knowing. The boy arched an eyebrow in challenge, as if daring her to speak up with any sort of information. "Something to add, Mary?" He said, but the other didn't appear outraged, she looked… pensive.

Sally clenched her fists, but decided not to use a direct attack in fear of other secrets being brought to the light. "John doesn't know how much of a maniac you are." She said in a muted tone, and Sherlock smiled bitterly at the veracity of what she was saying, even if she would never know to what extent.

"No, he doesn't." He conceded, finally letting out all the emotions he had bottled up for the last two moon-cycles. "But you do," Sherlock assured. "So you'd do better to stay away from me." With that, all the remaining royals scattered away, including Sally, no willing to risk retaliation if they stayed and probed him.

Sherlock took a moment to bask in the glory of what he just did and then turned around to watch his trusted accomplices. He smiled and stated. "I can't wait for tomorrow. Let's grab that wand and go." To which the others nodded in agreement, clearly also fed up with the kingdom and —almost— all its inhabitants. "The game is on!" Sherlock said as he walked confidently back into the dorm buildings.

* * *

The sun had already set outside the window, and the kingdom was silent, dormant, and waiting for the new day which would mark a new era for the realms. The reign of _King John the First of his Name_ would begin the cycles of prosperity and peace for which they all yearned, or at least that's what Mike hoped.

He had met John when they were merely kids, cycles ago. The young prince had quickly become his most trusted acquaintance, and had taken him in with no regards or really any knowledge of who he was or where he had come from; and he will always be grateful for that. The blonde had shown, even that early on, an incredible character that he admired, a kindness and loyalty he had never been familiar with, and the result had been unexpected for them all.

As they grew up, not only did they become the closest of friends, but Mike had found a love for political and diplomatic relationships he hadn't anticipated, and so became the future king's most trusted advisor.

He couldn't deny he loved his life at the castle amongst the royals, even if somewhere deep inside in his chest he still yearned for all that he had lost before John had found him. He was aware the morning would bring a lot of changes, and with that, he wished the world he knew and enjoyed wouldn't be shattered beyond recognition; yet he had always made it his mission to be objective, to observe and look at things for what they were, and not what they appeared. He supposed it could seem very hypocritical of him, a man who had lied about everything he was —including his very name— to think such a thing of himself.

He would, almost definitely, have to give it all up, once the truth was revealed, but there was nothing for it, nothing to be done; blood would always be thicker than water, no matter how perfect life in the palace could be. He had made a promise, not only to himself but to the subject of said vow, even if he hadn't really been old enough to understand or remember it. At the end of the day, John may as well be his most regarded friend, and the kingdom his paradise; but Sherlock would _always_ be his little brother.


	10. Chapter 9: This Is My Treason

**Chapter 9: This Is My Treason**

 _Treason is often times considered the worst sin anyone could attempt, yet its nature is quite simple and its benefits are vast. All that is needed is betraying someone else's trust or allegiance, specially by attempting to overthrow the ruling force, for any sort of personal gain.  
_

Sherlock was scribbling angrily on his notebook. Scratching the pen into the paper with a fury only matched by the worst minotaur ever encountered. He had a pile of books over the desk before him and several papers discarded around him; yet none of it was important, the subject, the words on the paper, none of it mattered. They were just a distraction, a way to will the time to go by faster and the night to spend itself as quickly as possible and deliver the day already. The rebel didn't really wished for tomorrow to come, but since there was no way to get away from it, he just wanted to get it over with.

The small lamp providing a warm light over the table swung when he heard the door to the library open and close. Sherlock sighed, there was only one reason someone would want to enter the library at 4 o'clock in the morning —apart from distracting oneself from impending doom— and that was to find him specifically, and he didn't particularly felt 'chatty' after the horrific day he had had.

"Molly," He muttered, acknowledging her presence just enough, but not even straying his gaze from the several texts he was scanning on amino-acids. He heard her shuffle closer, her atrocious shoes stopping in front of the desk.

"Hello, Sherlock." She greeted, yet her usual cheerful tone was absent from the words, as if she were nervous of the yet unnamed subject she was here to broach. As we covered before, 4 a.m. is hardly a time to establish any casual conversation. "Um, I wanted to ask you if you were alright." Molly said, her soft-waving hair following her movements as she tried to keep track of everything the other was doing at once. She smiled shyly, but made no effort to halt her talking to allow him speaking time. "You know, about earlier," Her stammering was getting on Sherlock's nerves, filling every precious silent moment with mindless yapping. "Because, you know, what Sally said-"

"Molly," The violet-haired boy interrupted her, finally raising his head to look at the girl. She was fidgeting with her jumper, but her slipper-clad feet were shuffling in even more anxiousness. "Stop trying to make conversation." He said, with an expression that warned her not to waste his time any longer when he was already so on edge. Molly, for her credit, understood immediately and just bit her bottom lip in chagrin.

"Oh, yes. Sorry." The apology stemmed an exasperated sigh from the other's mouth, and she was quick to get closer to the point, lest he grew bored and 'muted' her before she had actually made her point across. The boy stayed in position, pen held mid-word and body hunched over the paper to return to his previous activity at any given second, yet she could tell all of his attention was on her, so she decided to continue. "I just wanted to tell you that if you, or the others," She said the last part as an afterthought, but Sherlock figured it still counted. "Need help, for anything…" She trailed off at the other's confused expression, as if he were seeing —deducing— her for the first time.

The puzzling offer made him drop his pretence of being engaged in something else and he leaned back on his chair in order to assess the situation more holistically. His left eyebrow arching in contemplation, "And what could I possibly need from you?" He asked, and even though the girl knew the question should feel offensive, she could clearly tell it wasn't meant to harm or belittle, but instead it was painted with genuine curiosity at its intentions.

"Support." Molly offered, only to earn a disbelieving scoff from the silver-gazed boy in front of her. Sherlock was actually quite surprised by her loyalty, no one else —aside form John— had ever offered to help him in something before. He found he was unsure on how to proceed, even if he knew there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him.

"Support doesn't work." He said truthfully, disinterestedly shuffling around some papers in order to avoid meeting her gaze. "Not like magic does." His words could have been cryptic to anyone else, but he thought Molly, —with fairy heritage herself— would understand the call magic had on a soul, specially when things looked dire and no other way seemed plausible.

"I just," She commented, grimacing frustratedly at her own failure to articulate most of her meaning. The violet-haired boy just waited, uncharacteristically patient. "Well, I've seen the way you look at him," Molly said, a hint of terror behind her words, Sherlock could deduce she was afraid of the effect the words, and the subject, would have on him. "At John." She explained, and Sherlock fought hard not to let the pain show on his face, she already knew and observed too much about his personal life, he didn't wanted her to start digging around on what his purpose actually was in the kingdom. "Like you're gonna lose him." She finished.

A stab through the heart would have been less painful, the boy figured as he tried to ignore the sole truth. Because she was right, he was about to lose John, before he even sincerely had him —a love-spell was cheating at best— and despite knowing it from the very beginning, hearing the affirmation come from such an honest individual made it all the more tangible, more _real_.

"If I wasn't everything you think I am," He asked, in a bout of vulnerability. His eyes searching for the truth in her. "If I were everything everyone else thinks I am," Despite the level of intensity with which he uttered each word, his face was passive, almost calm. "Would you still want to help me?" Sherlock questioned.

Molly smiled, "Anything." She repeated stubbornly, drawing a faint smirk over her unexpected friend's face.

After a few moments of silence Sherlock shifted his focus from her to the books in front of him once more, he had concluded something, but Molly didn't really had to know about it. This, he had to figure out on his own, no matter how tempting the thought of assistance could be. "Go to sleep, Molly." He ordered, combing his fingers through his purple strands of hair and motioning for her to go. "You've got a event to run tomorrow." The boy said, and Molly looked as if she wanted to protest but thought better of it and left, leaving him alone once more.

* * *

Sherlock was at an impasse, he wasn't able to determine whether he wanted the stupid carriage to go fucking faster or slow down even more to stall the coronation a bit more; anything to delay what was coming. His silver gaze danced around and stopped at the happy faces he saw pass by on the streets from the high altitude of the carriage driving —more like parading— them to the cathedral where the coronation was to be held, and the boy wondered if that had anything to do with the nausea he felt at the pit of his stomach.

John sat next to him, looking like pure, unadulterated magic in a bright blue royal uniform and his hair swept back stylishly out of his face. The blonde held his hand tightly, and smiled at him every time their eyes met. Sherlock squirmed in anxiousness in the deep plum velvet suit Irene had made him wear and tried —somewhat ineffectively— to steady his breathing before he fell over and caused an embarrassing scene for himself.

The prince ran his thumb over the skin of his hand and grinned reassuringly at him, and the only thing the rebel could do was grimace back and look down at the small yellow present on his lap. "Don't be nervous," John said, his voice carried the soft and lulling tone to which everyone seemed drawn. The boy wished he would stop. "All you need to do is sit there and deduce everyone," He joked, sentence that at least helped Sherlock feel sort of human —which he was only half of— and calmed down his raging apprehension. "Just silently, please." The blonde finished and winked at him, the violet-haired boy smirked and fussed with a stray curl over his forehead.

"I make no promises." He answered and took a deep breath. Suddenly, the air felt a lot lighter, which was ideal. The last thing they needed was him on edge before the ceremony even began. He also decided to ignore the tender look that the blonde was giving him, not entirely able to deal with that just yet —or perhaps ever.

The moment passed, and the wheels kept on spinning, approximating him to what would probably be the most important minutes of his life, for better or worse. After a few more quiet breaths, John appeared to have gathered the courage to ask what he wanted and turned around to look at him. "Sherlock," He said, and the boy just raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment. "Would you wear my ring?" The blonde said, extending a hand and offering said item to him, yet Sherlock felt he couldn't accept it, he was barely able to keep up the farce as it was, there was no need to get in it deeper than it was necessary; than he already was.

"Maybe not." The rebel replied, taking his hand away and placing an apologetic expression over his face, "It would probably just fall right off me." He was quick to explain, he didn't want John to feel rejected in any way, today was supposed to be his day and Sherlock was already going to ruin it later, to do so _before_ then would be more cruel than the boy was able to get when it came to Prince John Watson.

The blonde, for his part, didn't look upset; slightly disappointed, yes, but not angry or upset. Just understanding. It made the silver-gazed boy want to bolt off the carriage even more. "I have something for you," Sherlock said when he remembered there was still a very important thing he had to do.

"For me?" The blonde seemed surprised, even though Sherlock had been carrying the stupid box the whole ride. Needless to say, John was clearly not the most observant person in the kingdom when he was excited. "Yes, it's just for later." Sherlock replied, offering him the tiny package and smiling shyly at the other, the older boy took it with much enthusiasm and swiftly lifted the top. "For when you need the strength." Once he opened it, John found a small bite-sized fairy-cake inside and smiled in wonder. "Some carbohydrates to keep up your metabolic energy levels." Sherlock said, in lieu of reason why the little pastry even existed, he needed to sound sincere, if the blue-eyed suspected anything it would end in disaster.

"Always thinking." He said, eyeing the small cherry-flavoured cake and beamed at the rebel in gratitude. The hole inside Sherlock's chest grew bigger by the minute, and had him wishing the next minutes would yield some catastrophe which would allow him to escape. "But I can't wait." John continued, snapping him out of his hypothetical fantasy. He shoved the fairy-cake inside him mouth in one whole bite and grinned as he started chewing.

"No!" The violet-haired boy screamed, reaching out his hands to stop him from devouring that which would expose him in such a ruthless way; but it was too late, the cake was already inside his mouth and there was nothing he could do anymore.

"Mmm," The blonde moaned in delight at the taste, while the other shrank more into the seat in terror. "This is really good." John said. "No matter how much you say it's simple chemistry, this is magical." He closed his eyes and savoured it, the sun shinning down over his skin.

Sherlock ignored the irony and the image, all that, not really able to concentrate on words when he was frozen in astonishment. "Do you-?" He mumbled, but found he failed to even know how to phrase what he wanted to know. He had no precedence on how to ask someone whether the love spell they didn't know existed still worked. "Would you say that you still lo-" He started, but paused at the term, the word not able to come out of his lips. He took a moment to gather himself back again and tried an alternative. "That you have very strong feelings for me?" He cautiously asked, searching in the other's eyes for any indication that his whole purpose was not yet ruined.

"I'm not sure," The blonde pondered. He smiled, still munching on the tasty treat. A suspiciously nonchalant look a over his features. "Let's give the anti-love potion a few minutes to take effect." John said, wiping his hands on his trousers.

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. "Alright." He mumbled, blinking distractedly; Until his brain caught up with the words and reeled back. "Hold on," He halted, while John couldn't contain the chuckle any longer and bursted out laughing. "You knew?" The violet-haired boy demanded, a shocked tone voicing the question.

"That you spelled me?" John asked, beaming sincerely at his boyfriend, as if delighted that he had finally managed to catch the other by surprise. "Yeah, I did." He replied, a clear, bright morning written all over his expression.

"For how long?" The boy questioned, a hesitant, unwanted half-smile forming in his mouth, his confused silver gaze tracing every line on the other's fantastic face. He needed data, it was unfathomable for him to realise he had not known about this. He closed his eyes once the obvious truth came to him; and he opened them at the epiphany. "Idiot," He mumbled under his breath, knowing exactly when the spell must have ended.

"Sorry?" The prince said, but there appeared to be no way of getting rid of the mirth he was showing, not even Sherlock potentially calling him an idiot could change that. Plus, the rebel thought he must be used to that by then. Sherlock shook his head, letting the other know he wasn't referring to him.

"Our first date," Sherlock explained, silently berating himself for being so compromised as to not being able to figure out John had known this whole time. "The spell washed away in the enchanted lake." He deduced; that had been the moment when the lovestruck attitude had changed into something softer, more subdued, more —dare he say— real?

John grinned proudly, "Yep." Completely smug with the situation. Sherlock smiled back at him, his mission forgotten for a second, but soon his face turned sour, when he realised he still had one concept to unravel. "So you have been," He paused, trying to ignore the stab he would feel speaking the next word. "-faking it since then?" He asked, attempting to keep the —surprising— heartbreak he felt at the mere idea of it being a reality. Because _that_ had to be the reason, there would be no other logical explanation.

The prince regarded him for a moment, becoming more serious although never losing that pleased manner he had acquired. He reached to take Sherlock's hand once more and placed it palm down, then took the ring off his finger —the one Mary had returned a few days prior— and slid the golden circlet on the violet-haired boy's first finger. "I haven't been faking anything." He stated, and bent down a bit to kiss his hand in a royally fashion.

"I-" The rebel started, but he didn't know how could he possibly finish. All his calculations, his carefully crafted predictions hadn't ever resulted in this, and now he was at a loss on how to proceed. "You have to know I didn't-" He tried to explain, not really knowing what he was supposed to say in these circumstances; there was no way he could tell the truth and still rely his actions as _'redeemable'_ , it would have to be one or the other, but before he could implicate himself further, John had already cut him off and had offered a suitable explanation.

"Look, it's fine." He said, "You had a crush on me, I had just broken up with Mary," He shrugged his shoulders but made no move to change his stance or get away from the other. "You didn't think it could happen on its own, right?" John said, glancing around as if he weren't really concerned about it. _'You can't be more mistaken'_ was the thought that fleeted through Sherlock's skull as he heard John's conjured explanation, the violet-haired boy still wrong-footed at the paradox that the reasoning caused. He couldn't believe the prince had found something that was so accurate yet managed to miss the mark completely. "Sherlock?" The blonde asked, now a bit concerned when he found the other deadly silent and with an expression of sheer terror on his face. John drew his eyebrows together and his eyes searched those of Sherlock's in exceptional confirmation of the horrible truth he was unraveling.

The bells of the cathedral chimed loudly, and the moment was broken. John still managed to shake off his hesitation and return a true smile to his face, reaching his arm to make contact with his partner to live the most important day of his life with him, but Sherlock knew it was done, they had crossed the line, the prince suspected something was up, —even if he hadn't realised it yet— and there was no going back from that, not once the idea had already taken root; and there was nothing the rebel could say that would benefit the situation. He took the blonde's offered hand and got off the carriage once it had stopped, feeling as if he were handling a time bomb, it was just he didn't know when its time wold run out, or which of them, exactly, would be the one who would inevitably explode.

* * *

Times like these made Moriarty wished he had taken that deal with his friends on the other side all those cycles ago and sold his soul, if only to overcome the frustration he felt. The bets had been raised, and it was time to roll the dice. The wand, the crown, the whole kingdom were at stake, about to be auctioned to whoever was most powerful, his entire ambition within reach; And all he was able to do was watch it from afar as images coming from a ratty old television transmitting Prince John's coronation. Situations such as this were the reason he desired to strike a match to the complete universe for being so fucking dull. It would be his pleasure.

He was perched on his seat at the center of the room, and a few other villains were also there, making chatter and spewing off opinions as if nothing important was happening. Jim rolled his eyes in animosity, wishing he didn't need them and he was be able to shoot them. _Any_ of them would do. Couldn't they see? This was probably the only real chance they would have to get out of the hell-hole into which they were thrusted, and they were arguing about decorations and gowns.

In the TV, pictures of several carriages were winding down the road in luxurious flower-packed streets, each one more impressive than the last, and Moriarty just felt indifferent to them all, only focused on the wand and that little urchin he had sent to retrieve it. It was a good thing he had managed to snatch the son of Violet Holmes off the streets, before he had learnt to steal for himself and become 'independent'. He had had the opportunity to mold the young half-pixie at his image and now all he had to do was use his magical abilities to grab the wand without ruining everything.

The parading figures on the screen kept on going, trailing down the winding paths in a sea of pastel colours and cheer. The noise on the background became more intense once the son of The Great Schemer and The Adler Queen were spotted in the crowd. Looking around in a mixture of wonder and determination. James was quite confused: where the hell was that stupid purple head? He would not tolerate another slip up like the one he had had with Ricoletti.

It took a second for him to recognise the reason why Sherlock was not standing with the other villain kids at the side of the big blue carpeted way towards the entrance of the cathedral. The main carriage, a big golden monstrousity with vines twining up the sides, stopped at the front of the yard in front of the building. From it, descended a stocky, blonde boy dressed in blue as the trumpets sang for the arrival of the King-to-be and the kingdom cheered, but even better was what came after; Sherlock, suited all in a dark colour and his vibrant violet curls a stylish mess atop his head, squinting at the crowd while extending his hand for John to help him get off the vehicle. Moriarty felt as if he could soar from satisfaction. The other —lesser— villains could brag about the looks or the brawn of their children all they wanted, but his convenient ward had duped a prince and was oh-so-close to getting the key which would unlock the Pandorica's box that was The Isle of the Lost.

James smirked smugly at the moving mages and stood up, "Villains," He said to the vast hall of the castle, "Our revenge begins today." He declared grandiosely, faces turning around in regard, and eyes lighting up in agreement. The board was set, and all he had to do now was wait for it to break apart. James eyes settled more vigorously on the screen, carefully taking in every detail of the glorious events transpiring in it. _'Don't blow it, Holmes.'_ He thought, as he grinned and sighed in victory.

* * *

Sherlock and John walked hand in hand, slowly going up the stairs towards the big double doors of the Cathedral. The rebel tried to ignore all the noisy trumpets playing slightly out of tune to the entrance of John Watson. Arriving to the top, John let go of the other's hand and greeted his parents with a nod, Sherlock vowed down in respect to the couple and took a step aside. The King and Queen looked radiant, perfectly styled and joyful about seeing their son take the throne at last. King Ben smiled proudly at the Prince and turned around to regard Sherlock in a curious manner; the boy met the gaze with his own kaleidoscope eyes in uncertainty but didn't seem to find any animosity in them, just reluctant acceptance and openness. Perhaps it would have been better if they hated him, considering…

"I told John this wasn't going to be easy." The King commented, as his wife grabbed him by the arm and joined in on the brief exchange. The boy in the purple suit and dragon collar nodded in agreement but pursed his lips in pursuit of what to say to acknowledge them.

John, of course, beat him to it when he answered his dad with conviction in his voice. "You also taught me that a king has to believe in himself," He said. "Eve when it isn't easy." The fire behind his eyes was unparalleled to anything Sherlock had ever encountered before. Those present seemed taken aback by it as well, but everyone recovered fairly quickly, they must already be used to John being this extraordinary; Sherlock, for his part, couldn't say the same for himself, and he doubted he ever would be.

The blonde's eyes twinkled with joy when his mother came close and wrapped him inside her arms. "Oh, John. We are so proud of you." She muttered, and placed a gentle hand over his cheek, the prince chuckled in embarrassment but made no move to deter his mum from showing him affection, "Such a good man you've grown to be." As the queen released him, John had to adjust his uniform and whispered his thanks with such an elated expression that made the other boy take a step back, for once in his life feeling as if he didn't wish to intrude in such an intimate moment. He was really nothing to them —including John— barely anything more than a complete stranger, an enigma who was about to unleash a terrible evil over them.

The trumpets kept on blearing, but it was time to keep things going, so the violet-haired boy took his place next to John's parents and made to walk with them inside the building, leaving the new king behind to make his daring entrance alone, as was tradition. Just before they parted, the prince grinned hopefully at the younger boy and said "Wish me luck." As if Sherlock's desires would really make a difference or help in any way. He smiled faintly, and reached his hand to put a supporting arm over John's shoulder. It had been the first —and most probably the last— time he had initiated any sort of physical comfort for the other, and as soon as he realised this, he swiftly retreated his arm, and half-smiled in appeasing manner. The King and Queen motioned him to get moving and he hurried to his place. The blonde sighed in anticipation and proceeded to walk slowly into the cathedral.

* * *

The church was grand and full of space, light streaming through the stained-glass creating a beautiful pattern of colours all over the floor. The choir was singing as the prince took sure but slow steps across the floor. Sherlock was standing towards the front, glancing up to the balcony were Irene and Greg were looking at him with such anxiousness and dread in their eyes, the boy was unsure in whether to keep on looking at them in sympathy, or to turn his gaze away and avoid the truth a bit longer.

As the prince passed by the gathered crowd lining up both sides of the trail, his subjects made a vow. Graceful figures clad in the softest of fabrics reverencing down as an expression of loyalty to their new sovereign and coming back up in a strange dance. John approached to the front and grinned at Sherlock, the boy lightly bent his knees with an unwanted smile on his face; but as soon as the prince had passed the moment turned sour. When they started on this mission he had believed glory and a ridiculous amount of fun would be the only things they had in store, he didn't anticipate the complete devastation John would make of his very insides, and now, the violet-haired boy was left standing as everyone else was still vowing down, a straight odd figure among a sea of devotion, with eyes fixed on the other's back and a broken expression over his face.

Lady Hudson, wearing a flowing dust-blue gown, walked to the centre of the platform where a breathtaking glass dome guarded a sparkling silver wand underneath. Swirls of crystal decorating the top of the jar and subtly forming a lucent, transparent rose that refracted prismatic light unto the very air around it. White, pure magic floating intricately about everywhere. She smiled kindly at the King and Queen, soon to become just another dearly loved Royal Couple as many had before, she made a reverence and lifted the crown off from King's Ben head while the man grinned proudly at the crowd. John stood at the middle, with his back straight and his head up.

Lady Hudson took a few steps needed and placed the golden crown over the prince's blonde hair, all the while Sherlock could only watch form the background as the moment of his doom was fast approaching. John's mother was already crying from the emotion and all the gemstones —representing justice, loyalty and mercy— over the gilded surface of the coronal, glowed as if spelled with undying enchantment.

The lady removed The Beast's spell jar and delicately grabbed the wand inside it. The curly-haired boy glanced up to his friends; Irene smiled sadly and nodded, as Lestrade placed a hand in her shoulder, they were looking at him in support, as if saying they would be with him no matter what he chose to do.

"Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of Auradon with justice and mercy," Lady Hudson started, speaking despite the huge grin breaking all over her face. "As long as you shall reign?" She asked, lifting up the wand ready to bless his reign if he were to accept.

John nodded fervently and slowly said "I do solemnly swear." The words were so carefully crafted, Sherlock could tell the blonde really did mean each and every one of them. If he had come to know anything about John in the months that he had known him was that when he set his mind to do something, he was going to put his entire heart into it, maybe even to the dismay of everyone else.

The crowd, joyful and anticipating, waited for the Fairy's blessing to come and make the new reign official for the loyal kingdom subjects. "Then it is my honour," Lady Hudson said as she placed the wand over one of John's shoulders. It wouldn't be long until she finished the ritual and the wand would be back into that sacred and impossible-to-open glass jar. He had to make a decision quickly, before the wand was sealed again and the only chance he had at fulfilling his destiny as Violet Holmes' son was gone.

Sherlock took a deep breath, but found that no matter how much he ordered his feet to move, they refused to do so. Fixed in place in a vicious will, which had the rebel very confused; he had planned this moment for so many nights, but now he was hesitant, without a single clue on what he was going to do once he managed to get un-stuck. "And my true joy," The lady continued, Sherlock figured it was now or never, his last opportunity to grab his future in his own hands. "To bless our new king-" The fairy said, but was unable to finish since the wand was brutally snatched from her hand by a pale arm.

The crowd erupted in shocked gasps. Time seemed to stop as everyone tried to wrap their heads about what they were witnessing. The new king standing up in a worried rush, always eager to defend his people. "Child! What are you doing!?" Lady Hudson said, as a horrible screeching sound erupted from the wand akin to nails on a blackboard and short-circuit-like sparks bursted from its surface. The kingdom shocked into surprised exclamations by the beam of light that erupted from the magical item and shot up towards the sky, producing the cracking of thunder as the arm holding it was not able to control its sheer, raw magic.

"Magic will fix everything." Was the response, and Sherlock stood shocked, discombobulated at the face of Molly battling with the wand in her hands. The crowd around him started backing off in panic, worried some stray incantation would be able to strike them by casualty, but the violet-haired boy couldn't move for a very different reason; He hand't been able to foresee this, he never thought his words would be so poisonous as to infect all of her thoughts. "It has to work!" The girl exclaimed her little-thought-out plan, her arms still struggling to control the wand and not let it fire away without command, as any mighty artifact does when not in the grasp of a power similar to its own.

The rebel looked up to the balcony, were his friends had been a second before, but now he could see them rushing through the people on it to get down. He glanced around him at the chaos unraveling from every corner of the cathedral, some of them trying to protect people close by and others running for their lives, with Mary frowning in the far wall, and Donovan and Anderson yelling at someone to stop her but doing nothing to achieve it themselves. At the front, the former king and queen stood back, not really able to do anything without the risk of being accidentally spelled, yelling _'take cover!'_ to everyone around them. Molly was quickly loosing the little control she had left, and was clearly not able to stop anymore, even if she dropped the wand it would continue to fire off aimlessly and no one would be able to even try to contain it then.

Lady Hudson approached her granddaughter to help, but a powerful spark exploded towards her and she had to dodge away to avoid being shot. John snarled in frustration, his eyes squinted and looking at Sherlock as if he were angrier with him than with the girl for standing there like an idiot in the exact line of fire instead of escaping. Of course, as was per usual to John, he then proceeded to do the opposite to whatever anyone would expect and rushed to stand before the violet-haired boy like another idiot to act as a shield from the wild magic bouncing off the girl at the centre of the commotion. At such display of protection, Sherlock was unfrozen as he calculated what their true opportunities were, and they were not many. Chaos was a vital part of the boy's life, a pleasure from deep within his very soul, but for some reason he felt compelled to solve the puzzle, fix the problem. With a determined look over his face, he stepped forward and, summoning all the will he possessed, he reached out a tentative arm towards Molly and, in one swift movement, snatched the wand off her hand.

"Careful, Sherlock!" He had heard John's mother yelling to him, but she needn't have bothered. Silence fell all over the building, yet Sherlock, still looking in confusion to the Queen Mother's concern, failed to notice why for several minutes. It wasn't until he turned to look at John that he noticed everyone was staring straight to the wand raised over shoulder-level by his own arm. Because apparently, once in his grasp, Lady Hudson's wand had stopped shooting away and had become deadly calm.

Sherlock stared at the wand in confusion as Molly ran away in fear and regret. The violet-haired boy took a moment to observe her as she went, but soon came back to question the wand as if it would be able to give him any actual answers. The attendees to the coronation stepped back with fearful expressions. Clearly afraid of what the son of Violet could do, but still worried enough to keep on looking. The silver-gazed boy realised in that moment that he had become the threat, and failed to decide whether to feel smug —mainly at Donovan and Anderson— or if it was the most distressing feeling he had ever experienced. The new King stood in front of him, staying back a smart amount of distance but placatingly reaching out a hand to him. "Sherlock," He said, his voice nervous but soft, as if he were talking with an unruly child, —which in a way, he supposed he was. The rebel just waited, looking back and forth between the item in his grasp and the blonde boy wearing a crown in front of him. "Give me the wand." The command was soothed completely by the kindness he could perceive, which made what he was about to do all the more difficult.

"Stand back," The violet-haired boy warned, pointing the magic tool at him even though he had no intention of doing actual damage, he just needed them to step aside and allow him to do what he had to. Irene and Greg came running through the atrium at last, ready to stand behind Sherlock in what would be the tipping point of their future.

"It's all fine," The blonde said. Smiling sadly at him like the first time John had realised just how different things back at The Isle were. A mixture between a deep sadness and determination, like he would never give up until he saw it fixed. Sherlock would catalogue the look, were he not busy having the equivalent of a cornered-animal reaction.

"John, I said: Stand back!" He yelled and the crowd took two more steps further away from the commotion, clearly starting to get very afraid of what he may do. Sherlock's gaze darted all around him, trying to focus on anything other than the unreadable expression he found when he looked at the deep blue fire that were John's eyes, yet it was difficult, the royal didn't deserve this, and here he was, ruining everything anyway.

"I told you so!" Donovan yelled from behind him, resulting in various noises of agreement which did not really help the already dire situation all that much. Sherlock could sense Anderson smirking satisfied next to Sally, crossing his arms and looking smugly at him as the undeniable truth was revealed: they had both been so right, yet the universe would probably tore right open before Sherlock ever said it. The violet-haired boy turned and directed the wand at them threateningly, both of their pleased attitude wiped right off their bodies as they took a surprised step back. Sherlock allowed a tiny flicker of wicked satisfaction rush through him at that.

The blonde didn't really let the comments bother or distract him from this. "You really want to do this?" He asked, his eyes looking all over his 'boyfriend's' face as if trying to figure something out, like he were deciding something about the situation.

The younger boy arched an eyebrow in defense to the question, and snarled, "What does it look like?" He was completely aware of the consequences such actions would have, and he silently resigned himself to endure the moment in which John would eventually realise he was not bluffing and that spark of affection would die out from his expressive face right in front of him.

However, the king didn't seem dissuaded yet, if anything his resolve appeared more decided, like the answer for which he had searched was forming up clearly for him to recognise. "Like you don't, actually." He said, leaving behind his alerted pose and dropping both his defensive arms to his sides, as if confident he was not going to be made a target of anything he didn't desire. As if daring him to take a shot at him. This threw the rebel off for various reasons, what could possibly be written in his face that John still wholly trusted he would never intend to hurt him? The boy didn't really wanted to find out.

The rebel's breath was ragged and he felt a surge of chocking emotions bubbling up into the surface, brimming his eyes with moisture. "You don't know anyt-" Sherlock tried to counter that impossible argument, but the blonde beat him to it.

"I think I do." He assured, a small side smile making an appearance on him. "Look," Even the tone he used was different, it wasn't one of belligerence, but instead was of an honest trust. "I get it." The blonde said. "Your parents want you all to be like them, but they made their choice long ago." Sherlock turned his body around to gauge his friends' reactions. Irene and Lestrade seemed struck dumb, not doing anything to help the cause, just standing there as if that notion had never occurred to them before. "Now it's time to make yours." The king said.

The boy examined the people present he could recognise, how very expectant they appeared. But the offer to actually choose what they wanted had never been an option for them. "You're so naive." Sherlock scoffed at how wrong John was. How wrong he _must_ be, because Sherlock had never been anything other than this, changing now would be completely futile. For him, there was only this life he had carved out for himself, and without it, he failed to comprehend who he was underneath. "Mary tried to tell you." He remembered, glancing at said girl, who was staring at him with disappointment painted all over her; her short, blonde hair framing her face of disapproval perfectly. "Maybe you should have listened." He tried for dangerous, but the effect was completely lost by the crystal tears streaming down his face.

"No, no." The king shook his head, "All of this is not enough, it doesn't fulfill you." He assured, with an inviting smile as he took one sure step toward him. "Any of you." He gestured the other two kids. "Tourney and victory pizza with the team makes you happy." John said to Greg, whom he had come to know as his mate, grinning goofily as he saw the tiny flicker of interest cross Lestrade's gaze at the mention of his true passion. "And you, Irene." The blonde turned hopefully, but Irene was far more skeptical than Greg. "Yes, you are gorgeous. But you are so smart, too." The blonde admitted. "You don't have to settle for someone just because they have a castle." The Woman looked away with a downcast expression. Sherlock had recognised before the way her whole world had lit up once they crossed the Castle's doors for the first time, perhaps he knew it back then that she had found a higher interest in something other than mischief.

"And you…" John said, speaking at Sherlock with a raw vulnerability that almost took the other's breath away. The rebel clenched the wand tighter, maybe the ridges digging painfully into the skin on his palm would help remind him of his purpose, keep him from drifting away. "You're brilliant, and surprisingly kind," The new king continued, ignoring some of the disbelieving faces from the crowd. Sherlock's silver eyes moved to them, but he could barely deduce anything in his manic state. "And I wish you could deduce yourself and realise you're not evil." John concluded.

Sherlock's insides were crawling, digging sharp pain into his muscles as the need to do something, to lash out, curse the entire kingdom, something that would aid in clearing that devastating confusion he had inside. The loss of control evident by his whole body, yet his hand was steady as he held on to the magical object that was the physical representation of everything he feared.

"Trouble?" The blonde added, "Oh, yes. A world of trouble." He said in part to ease the tense line on the other's shoulder, but mainly because it was true, there was no way to deny the violet-haired boy was just made for a bit of misbehaving, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was rotten as everyone else was so ready to believe, including himself. "But not evil."

"You can't possibly know that!" The other answered, with rage permeating every word; that combined with the tears gave him a mad look which resulted in the crowd growing anxious at the outcome of the situation. Maybe their King was right, maybe Sherlock was not really bad at heart and it all would be fine. Or perhaps he was, and John was wrong. and this would end in tears and devastation beyond repair.

Sherlock could barely register John was a bit outraged at his accusation, showing that nerve the rebel had always liked about him. "I may be an idiot, but I know a lot more about this than you do." The blonde demanded, not ready to be dismissed as Sherlock intended. "I was five when the war started, remember?" He asked. "I've seen bad people. I know what that hatred looks like," Revealing the fact of which the genius had been previously unaware. Of course he could do the simple math, but he had never stopped to think about John actually witnessing anything like he did. "And you may have her eyes but you are _not_ her."

The sheer power of those words made Sherlock reel back as if struck. "And what?" He said, a sarcastic and poisonous tone invading his phrases. "You expected to make a touching speech and suddenly it would magically change my mind and fix everything, just like that?" He asked, yet the John Watson that faced him was not one of battle, nor John the monarch, as he had expected. Instead, he got the John that wanted to be a healer, that yearned to make him understand something about himself he had never knew.

"No." The blonde concluded. "I _know_ I'm not going to change your mind." A soft but sure phrase to encompass the reality he thought about what the younger boy had said. There was a pregnant pause after that, the kingdom holding its breath in wait of a resolution. Sherlock eyes found the deep blue of John's and what he found there made him as devastated as he had ever been. He sees it, that true belief in his cause even after all that had happened. This wasn't about his proclamation or his kingdom, he just simply believed in him like no one ever had. It made his resolve falter, his hands finally starting to shake at the revelation.

Just when he thought he was at the edge of falling apart, John spoke, his final statement laid down like the last nail on the coffin. "You already did that all by yourself." He said.

Sherlock stood there, out of the maniacal trance he had entered in his distress. The wand raised against an inexistent threat, as the ring on his hand glinted wildly at him from the reflecting light. He looked around but didn't pay attention to any of it, not his friends' understanding faces, nor all the others present waiting for him to lay down the fight, he just saw that smooth band around his finger. His breathing slowed and his arm made its way down from the upright pose. The adrenaline rushing out of his veins as fast as it had entered, while his stance of defense turned into one of exhausted defeat. Because his battle was finally done, he had lost, and wasn't it the strangest of things that Sherlock felt almost relieved for it?

Once the wand was down, he looked at John, who was wearing the biggest grin he had witnessed and allowed himself to smirk faintly. Suddenly feeling lighter and oddly emotional. As if he had solved the most mystifying puzzle. The crowd around him released their worried postures and began to calm down as they realised their realm would not be destroy that day. The new king took a step forward, ready to encounter Sherlock at the center of the Cathedral's aisle, but was interrupted when a round of roaring thunder broke out from the sky.

After that, an eery silence was left and the atmosphere turned dense. Those present looked around attempting to find a reason for the most distressing feeling of anxiousness and doom. After a few moments the walls began to shake and the air coloured lime green. A cloud of smoke and sparkling light formed at the center of the atrium, making the crowd gasp once more. It roared and grew until it dissipated, leaving behind a man with lime green eyes, dressed in a sleek suit.

He smiled a devilish grin and muttered: "Did you miss me?".


	11. Chapter 10: The Dragon

**Chapter 10: The Dragon**

 _Beware, the dragon._

The green smoke dissipated and Moriarty was able to distinguish every shocked figure in the crowd looking at him as if there had never been another thing of importance in the universe. James liked that notion, he believed that was exactly what all the people, all the stupid little things should think of him in the first place. "Missed me?" He said to the group standing at the dais, spotting some horrified familiar faces and smiling smugly at their surprise. Perhaps they had thought they would never get to see the likes of him ever again, but that is the problem with burying things when they are not quite dead yet.

"Moriarty." The former beast said, seeking affirmation as if attempting to delay the truth from existing the longer he kept putting off the inevitable. His wife grabbed his arm in support, twisting her pretty face in worry, but none of them seemed actually sure of what to do about him and his presence at their oh-so-cozy celebration, hesitant in fear at the very sight. Even the mighty Lady Hudson looked on in hesitancy and appeared lost without her trusty wand to aid her.

"Well, obviously." The criminal sighed in boredom at the situation and turned around to search for a more interesting reaction. The dark suit and skull-tie he wore reflecting all the light from the chandelier above them and complimenting his manic grin. Even the cathedral was playing by his rules now that he was free.

"Jim." He heard his name coming from the middle of the hall, spoken with so much animosity yet such recognition that it caused the man's smile to grow wider once he realised exactly who had called him. He slowly ran his gaze through the crowd and stopped once he saw a much more intriguing sight: Sherlock, standing defiant on the blue carpet leading up to the altar, holding a sparkling silver wand in one hand and clenching his fist at the other. A wild gaze over his opal eyes and his back flanked by the other two weasels that had come with him from the Isle.

Moriarty was delighted at the complete unhinged quality he sensed on him; it had been a long time since he had recognised something other than apathy in the younger man's expression and was certainly intrigued on how that would turn out. "Oh, Sherlock." He commented as he approached the teen, watching as the two other kids drew back slightly with every step he took. He failed to understand the cause of why Sherlock still kept them around. "I knew there were still some uses left for you." The words were uttered with care, enough to make them appear thoughtful but were, in reality, nonchalant in nature; it wasn't as if he really needed him all that much now that he was getting his due. "Now give me the wand." He ordered, but the boy's eyes weren't exactly on him, looking instead at some figure behind him which he could not be bothered to determine. The hesitation causing only to make him impatient on getting his way sooner rather than later.

Sherlock appeared to know this, but chose to ignore it, stalling some more and looking at the wand is if it were to suddenly provide answers to any undisclosed question he had. The boy shifted his gaze back to the criminal but a second later he flung the wand over said man's head and to the front, right at the centre of the platform, for the fairy to catch.

Moriarty had no time to think about such betrayal, since as soon as the object landed on the old lady's hands, she pointed it at him and started to recite an incantation in his direction. At that exact moment, Moriarty remembered he had brought Violet's scepter, so he bent over, gathered it in his grasp and gave it a powerful thrust into the air. All the sound seemed to seep out of the room at once as if in a vacuum, and several of the attending guests became catatonic. Spelled into immobility as the ones spared looked on in horror. Lady Hudson was still holding the wand with an expression of concentration over her face and suspended mid-spell.

Moriarty let go of the scepter, discarding it as a cheap trinket. He let out a breath and grinned. Jim walked mockingly around, his hands inside his pockets and his feet carrying a slightly playful spring. He approached the front party, most of which were trapped in his trick. He raised his hands and plucked the wand out of the woman's grasp. "Ooops," He gasped, his eyes lighting up in amusement. Pocking her arms with the pointy end of the magical object and turning around to gauge the reactions of the others present.

All around, the place was filled with roaring thunder, almost cartoonish in its appropriateness. Moriarty wandered among the waking frozen, tilting spectacles on noses and prodding the fabric of their clothes, amused that he knew they were completely aware of what was happening around them, yet not able to move a muscle. He approached a smaller blonde figure and just when he was about to reach out and shove him he heard a gasp coming from behind him. When he turned around, he saw the violet-haired boy looking at him with unadulterated hatred in his grey eyes. Interesting…

"Oh, no no no." The villain muttered in dismay at the other's expression. "Haven't I taught you anything?" He asked while the other remained silent. James grabbed the skewed crown on John's head and placed it on his head, feeling like its weight was finally where it belonged. He smirked when he recognised that hopeless yet enraged look over his pupil's face every time his hand came closer to the blue-eyed boy. "Or have you been letting all these ordinary people rub up on you so much that this rubbed off too?"

The boy was trying to appear indifferent, but Moriarty had known him for too long for him to be able to fool him. His fists kept flexing and the muscles in his jaw twitched in frustration. James ran his hands trough his sleek-back brown hair, feeling the satisfaction of power surge through him. His brown eyes flashed green at moments, proof of the magic he had stolen all those cycles ago.

He approached the beautiful Queen Mother next, and the guests stayed dead silent as they watched him disrespectfully regard the royal family. He ran a finger over the soft skin of her face, laughing in amusement at the pleasure. "In another time… in another time…" He muttered, not sorry in the slightly. At the end of the day, he may as well be in the presence of the kingdoms' most remembered heroes, but they were nothing compared to him. No, legends like him stayed alive forever.

"Pardon me," The man said giggling, as he purposefully bumped into the royals. "Excuse me," The look on the three teenagers down the hall delighted him. None of them dared —or could— do a thing to stop him, no matter how enraged or afraid they were of his dominance. "Ugh, mortals." The term of disdain came naturally to him, ignoring the fact that he, himself, was only semi-immortal thanks to the acquisition of abilities that had never been his.

Moriarty sighed, clearly tired of the activity by then. He stalked to the middle of the cathedral once more, all the time not keeping his gaze off from his apprentice. "We'll have to work harder with you." He assured, his disgusted disappointment apparent in his movements. "I know I've had cycles and cycles of practice, but you'll get there." The boy with the violet hair grimaced, it seemed like a very unappealing idea to become like him, just like he had wanted to no more than a few moon-cycles before. "Once you've rid yourself of those boring emotions."

Sherlock turned to regard one of his companions, sparing a brief glance of shared knowledge only to have terror mirrored back from that strong-jawed face. When he turned back to watch Moriarty his chest heaved with unshared wrath. "And what if I don't want to?" The boy asked, to which the criminal only smiled falsely, making himself deceitfully pleasant.

"You don't want to make me angry. My dear." The dip on his voice at those last words was enough to make the other physically back away the tiniest bit, but his resolve was still iron-forged. "Yes, back off." The criminal said, encouraging the other to take the smarter route and drop it. However, this seemed to have the opposite effect to the boy, making him shake his head and take a deliberate —if not a bit hesitant— step forward once more, leaving his uncertain friends behind as he challenged the threat on his own.

"Well, then-" James leaned his slim body back at that, as if to appreciate the scene in its entirety: Sherlock disputing his destiny, disputing _him_. The smirk that then painted the criminal's pink lips was venomous in its satisfaction. "Here we are at last." He muttered, the bored tone contrasting starkly against his meaning. "Our final problem." The thunders stopped suddenly, clearly Jim's magical doing. Silence stretched again over the atmosphere, and the dramatic signature was a tell-tale symbol of their nature. This is how they had always been: a scene perfect for their ultimate confrontation. The universe mockingly stopping in time to observe.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and his lids were twitching with the movement below. Moriarty could recognise a spell when he saw one coming; not to mention that the boy and his mother seemed to share the predilection upon shutting out the world in order to concentrate in their incantations: Rules of intent and all that mind-numbing lark. Just before the violet-haired boy finished, Jim aimed the wand at the sky and made the intention disappear from the other's brain. The magic that was already forming dissipating as sparkling dust and leaving the owner confused in their departure.

It took far less than normal for the kid to recover, he would give him that —Sherlock clearly had to be out of the ordinary for him to even so much as consider not attempting to murder him on the spot— and once he did, the frown over his brows deepened. He was obviously growing frustrated by the second, and it was starting to show. "Stop," He ordered, but the criminal had no intention, nor any capacity, of being intimidated by a teenager, specially not one that he had molded at his own will. "Just go back to the Isle." The suggestion was not unexpected, but Moriarty still let out an honest laugh at the absurdity of such notion.

"You're funny," Jim said cynically, awaiting for that moment where the other would react to his dismissal of his wishes. Soon enough, Sherlock failed to laugh along, just narrowing his eyes and tucking up his chin in a truth he was not able to deny. "Oh, you're serious." Commented Jim, not appearing surprised in anyway, despite his words. "Then where shall we begin?" James wondered while he tapped the silver wand on his chin in mock contemplation. The violet-haired boy in front of him rolled his eyes in irritation. "Oh, I know!" The mirth he showed at his previously thought strike was highly apparent in his body language. "Why don't we start by getting rid of this?" As he said that, he aimed the wand at the teenager and the ring he had on his finger flew off and landed exactly around the length of the magical object. "Perfect fit!" The two friends behind the boy gasped, as Sherlock looked at his naked finger, now devoid of any meaning.

As he was distracted, Moriarty figured it was the perfect time to make his first strike. He thought up something clever and directed the hit straight to the other's head, where his most valued asset —his mind— would be the first to take a shot. The spell rushed through the air as in slow motion, ready to hit the other right between the eyes, only for it to be unsuccessful by the boy ducking away at the final moment thanks to a warning coming from the front of the cathedral. "Sherlock, look out!" The voice said, and it revealed a figure that no one was quite expecting to emerge from behind the other government officials.

Mycroft Holmes. In all his ginger, and _not-dead_ intensity stepping up to the entirety of the audience. Most of them would be able recognise him, but they would all be wrong in their guess. They knew him as something else, but the criminal was one of the few that had known him before he escaped and he never really imagined he would get to encounter him again, much less in a situation such as this.

After standing up and taking a moment to gather himself, Sherlock's kaleidoscope eyes searched for the source of his assistance, only to be rendered still by the sight that greeted him. "Mycroft?" He asked, a tiny and vulnerable voice making its way out of his lips in an uncharacteristical fashion.

Moriarty chuckled. When he had ascended the ladder of power on the island, he had been made aware by a very reliable source that the first born of Violet Holmes had not perished in the war, and was currently hidden away somewhere in the kingdom in order to avoid receiving the same punishment as his mother had, him being his direct descendant. The fact that the royals had still been set on finding him before the new King's proclamation was the only reason why little Sherlock, only three-cycles-old then, was not even spared a single thought. "Ugh, Violet's son." Jim commented, watching as Sherlock looked ready to fall over from the revelation. "Well, you all just spring up like weed, don't you?" He said, to which Mycroft just narrowed his blue eyes and tilted his head in warning, he may be completely out of practice, but his heritage shone through him as stronger as it did in the youngest of the Holmes' eyes.

"You're alive." The violet-haired boy stated dumbly, ignoring his friend's supporting hands on his shoulders and for a minute forgetting the threat looming over him. He was so shaken that he barely registered his feet moving until he was not more than three meters away from his long-lost brother.

Mycroft grimaced in guilt and murmured: "I'm sorry." His hands clutching that regal umbrella as a life-line. Finally, after all those cycles, the sight of his baby-brother, passionate and unruly as he had always been, had him smiling slightly despite himself.

This was, of course, when Moriarty had had enough of the nonsense. "Yes, yes, very toughing." He rolled his eyes, miming shooting himself in the head with the wand from repulsion. "But if you don't mind, we were in the middle of something." James' eyes turned darker, and the magical relic in his hand made the oldest of the two fall back in dismissal.

The teenager's rage level was rising, and Moriarty grinned at the sight. There was nothing he enjoyed more —aside from chaos— than riling people up, and Sherlock was just the perfect subject for that, he was so very amusing to watch. From the ground, the ginger man raised his upper body, attempting to stand. "Sherlock…" He muttered and the boy's sharp-edged gaze moved quickly from watching the Consulting criminal to assessing his brother, still reeling from the bewilderment. "Listen to me, his powers are-" Mycroft's advice was cut off by the surging incantation that rendered him composed completely out of ice. A crueler spell but still immobile like all the remaining spectators present —the others having already left in panic.

"No!" The violet-haired boy exclaimed, rushing to his side, Irene and Lestrade closely behind him. Sherlock bent down and checked the older man over, worried lines appearing on his young face when he realised he had no way of knowing wether it would be possible to bring him back. Rage surged through his system at the pain, the terrifying sadness he felt at losing him so soon after finding him.

"That's better," James said, contemplating the other's fate. "The Ice Man." The expression he got from the three of them making him feel giddy at his victory. "Sentiment is weak," His voice was deceptively soft. Mocking as if he were really sympathetic by his situation. It made the hate in Sherlock grow all the more. "You really think you can be capable of that?"

There was a slight change in the boy at the words, his demeanor growing dark, something slightly dangerous bubbling up underneath him. James reveled in the interesting turn up. "You don't know what I'm capable of." The rebel worded, a threatening sense of calmness underlying every letter he spoke.

"That's where you're wrong, my dear." Moriarty answered, casually he tucked his free hand in his pocket. "I know _you_." He wandered around across the hall, dodging all the motionless people as he basked in his imminent success. "You think you can walk away from this? You'd get bored within a week." He spoke, the truth hitting hard on the teen's chest, making his belligerent expression falter for a moment. Moisture gathering in his eyes from the frustration and denial. "You _are_ this, without it you're nothing." Moriarty went on, ignorant to the fire he had just started inside the rebel. Placing his steps confidently in their new domain. "I made you."

The boy's hands shook as he raised his arm, and with all the strength and intention in his Mind Palace he could muster, he attempted to snatch back the wand. _'I command wand to my hand!'_ He ordered inside his head, closing his eyes and molding the energy of the magic to take it away from its current source of power and return to him the advantage.

The silver artifact in Jim's hand grew heavy, and for a moment nothing happened. But after a few seconds the wand started pulling at him the tiniest bit; trembling with the force between the both of them. Sherlock was clearly burning himself out, desperate to make the spell work, and James laughed delighted at the feeble attempt to take something from him. Then, something shifted, and the rebel opened his eyes as if in revelation, and in that exact moment, Moriarty's fingers tried unsuccessfully to secure it; but the wand had already gone flying out of his grasp, and landed in the possession of a very surprised Sherlock.

The criminal's face changed, and a deep frown of confusion appeared all over his expression. He never had imagined the little scrawny pest would have such affinity for fae abilities. Not taking into account his mother's skill. "Oh, Sherlock," He said, recovering for the blow he had been dealt, quickly picking up the scepter once more in compensation. "A tantrum, really?" This step back was nothing but insignificant to him, he had named himself the emperor of this hologram they called life, and he would do anything to gain back what he felt they had usurped. Somehow, the figure he painted was more powerful than it had been before. What did it say of an adversary when you take away his biggest advantage and yet he's still winning?

The girl beside the violet-haired boy, placed a supporting hand in his arm as the other just stared at the wand as if he were attempting to familiarise himself with a stranger. "Maybe you can still win this." She muttered, blind and moronic hope shinning in her eyes.

"Please," Jim chuckled, endlessly amused by their innocent naivety. "You're killing me." A venomous grin broke out over his face while he stalked towards them. The other —and taller— of the three chose that moment to rush to Jim and tried to take the magic scepter away from him. His strong arms held tightly onto the artifact, as Moriarty gripped it at the opposite end, a battle of strength in which the criminal took advantage in jestingly poking the other's muscles in contemplation. "Gaston should be jealous." He muttered, while the other tried to hold on, but even if he had quite a good grip on it, Moriarty did not seem overly impressed. His deep brown eyes soon grew swirling pools of lime green and it was so easy to get into the young man's head, also turning his irises into green, that the other let go of the scepter almost immediately after.

Greg looked helplessly at his friend, and Sherlock seemed to decide in a course of action. He aimed the sparkling wand in his hand at the him, clearly expecting the other to do the same with his magical tool. The criminal, however, just stared at him in exasperation and said: "Oh, don't be silly. That won't help you at all." He came to stand directly before the weapon, a bored and tired expression in his face, as if he knew exactly how the situation was going to turn out. "Now give me the wand." He coaxed, and the teen hesitated for a second, the wand wavering down a bit; not because he was doubting where his —very surprising, even to himself— loyalties lied, but because he knew he was cornered, running out of both time and options. "Give me the WAND!" Moriarty lost composure, startling Sherlock into almost dropping the wand from his hand; but he stayed put. Perhaps there was nothing he could do, but losing looked a much better option than caving in.

"Sherlock, don't-" Lestrade said, pushing himself off the floor unto which he had fallen after letting go of the scepter. The Woman also stood by him, raking her clever gaze over his figure and deciding they would do what they could to stop him.

Jim waited with his hand still in his pocket, impatient as he usually was for Sherlock to make up his mind in whether he was going to attack or stop being his annoying self with the whole betraying thing and give in.

After a few moments, the violet-haired contemplated the criminal's figure; a maniac with a crown over his head. His eyes darted back to the front of the hall, where his brother was still made of watery crystal, and John was frozen in that soft yet defiant expression, with one of his arms placed in front of his mother in protection. Sherlock stood up straighter, his decision made, and he looked at Moriarty with opal eyes of resigned acceptance. He confidently pointed Lady Hudson's wand in the direct path to his heart, completely aware of the looming doom that awaited them. Or perhaps even he had no idea.

"Wrong answer." Jim stated and thrusted both his arms up into the air. The green smoke in which he had arrived came back and the thunder outside roared more than ever.

* * *

A lime blinding light was shinning at the centre of the fog, and Sherlock saw it moving strangely, as if it had a form; twisting and coming together in something he thought he should recognise but just couldn't quite put his finger on. His mind was still reeling from encountering his brother, and he felt as if he kept missing something very important. Irene and Greg looked at the squirming smoke in confusion, and almost jumped out of their skins when a booming growl was heard coming from the smoke, and this time, when it dissipated, it left behind not only a man, but also a big translucent dragon conformed of glowing, green magic.

The creature extended its gigantic wings and raised it head to howl in intimidating volume. Sherlock had never seen its equal. He had not exactly been allowed to watch his mother summon the same particular magic when he was a stupid stumbling toddler, and now that he had, he felt he never would recover. The other two present —that could move— were stuck staring at it terrified; but Sherlock, however, was more afraid of the insane expression he saw on Jim's face just before he projected part of his consciousness into his creation. Shortly after, the dragon started moving his wings and thrusted out from the floor into the open air of the vast cathedral.

Its flight was elegant, and casted shadows over the almost-statues that lined the hall with its vibrant light. It opened its mouth and breathed a blaze of fire-shaped magic to the ceiling, causing it to disintegrate away as if it were made of steam, and vanishing from sight as easily as vapor returning to the atmosphere. The sky outside had been painted black despite the hour of the day.

Sherlock made a note of it to avoid being hit with its flame at all costs, lest he fancied being cursed for the rest of eternity. He ran back to the front, closely followed by his two friends. The creature soared the air and swerved the columns, but its size was enough to bring it much closer than comfortable to the teens in no time. A thick blanket of fear and panic coated the air from the horror of the ones spelled, who could see everything that was happening but were left helpless and vulnerable. John still stood there, crownless, witness to his life falling apart but not able to raise a finger to defend it. The violet-haired boy ducked away from a blast of raw magic as he tried to retrieve the reversal enchantment from his Mind Palace.

Irene took out her magic mirror from her pocket, but it was of no real use against the height of incantation that this creature was. For what the rebel knew from his extensive research, Violet Holmes had uniquely acquired the ability to create this spell, and it required a lot from a person; not only physically, but also mentally, as one needed to stay alert at both organisms simultaneously; controlling the winged-beast even while mildly aware of their body's reality.

Sherlock had to remember that it was really Moriarty in there surrounded by all that magic, despite how hard it was to believe it. And once he turned around and saw the creature's expression, looking at him as if it knew him, he realised he _did_ believe it. Past all the draconian features, there was an unmistakable heated gaze that was impossible to not be recognised. The teen frowned and turned around, choosing not to distract himself from the task of finding a conjuration that would free John from his immobility.

Behind him, James was chasing at Lestrade, who had managed to piss him off by effectively ducking away every curse he breathed in his direction. "Oh, isn't it funny to watch him dance?" Jim —his human body— said, delighting in the panicked chaos he had bred.

Sherlock ignored the jab as Greg passionately yelled numerous of profanities back at him while continuing to escape, Moriarty laughed and the dragon rounded a column to catch him unawares. Sherlock closed his eyes and recited numerous spells he could remember, in the hopes that one of them would work, and it wasn't until he thought to combine it with movements of the wand that he was able to spark a chaotic purple flare off it and unfreeze all the remaining guests present.

The difference was significant. When before you could only hear Greg's abuse and the roaring of the dragon above their heads, now the room was alive; a sea of screams and terrified gasps filling the air as people attempted to get out, only to be stopped by magically bolted doors.

The rebel was not able to thaw his brother. But once awake, John ran to him, ignoring his mother's pleas and his father's orders to remain by their side. His eyes were wild with fear but the expression on his face looked determined. "What do we do?" He asked Sherlock, and the other could only gape at the blonde still trying to help him after the violet-haired had failed so spectacularly at containing a threat he, himself, had created.

John was right, they needed to do something. The only problem was that for all his extensive knowledge, he had little experience in magical abilities, and thus he was unequipped to find a way to stop this without setting everything on fire. The boy was weary of including the new king in anything he could concoct, and that must have shown in his face since John bit his bottom lip and frowned in frustration, clearly annoyed by Sherlock's reluctancy at getting any sort of outside assistance. At that moment, Irene arrived next to them, crouching down and making the most of the rushing figures to design how to proceed, while effectively hiding them from the dragon's attention for a few moments.

A plan. They needed a plan.

Sherlock looked around searching for anything that might aid them, but the truth was that this sort of threat was too nebulous, and he was having trouble deciphering what its weakness could be. His Mind Palace was proving useless too, and the tumultuous atmosphere did nothing to help his thought process. The creature chose that moment to fly above them, his eyes shining brightly and the movement of his wings creating a horrible draft that shook almost everything in his path, knocking over vulnerable things as it went by. "Sherlock?" They could hear the mocking voice of Jim calling for him, attempting to bring him out from his hiding place among the people; but the boy was not about to do that, of course, he needed to keep thinking.

 _'What could defeat a magical dragon?'_ He thought. _'Nothing, it's pure magic.'_

The magic itself couldn't be controlled, or even created, yet the spells helped shape it and give it intention, so a direct attack would really do nothing to harm it. A beast such as that could dissipate and form at will, and any incantation that you could throw at it would be overpowered completely by the natural height of complexity of the spell.

Irene crawled closer to the rebel, and motioned to continued their way through the crowd until they were as far from the dragon's sight as possible. John followed her and grabbed a fistful of his purple blazer to tug him along as he plotted inside his head. The smooth marble flooring was hard on their knees but they kept going. Barely avoiding being trampled on and unsuccessfully swerving the obstacles that had been discarded in everyone's haste to get out of there; Sherlock already had bumped into a hard object of unknown precedence and something sharp had pierced his hand.

 _'Then how do you contain it?'_ Sherlock continued in his head. Running through the options available. _'Dark magic.'_ He pinpointed as the only possible chance he would have at doing anything against such an adversary.

"Guys?" Lestrade yelled, clearly getting tired of running around and being the sole point of attack of the flying beast. He sounded terrified and panicked at not being able to locate them. Irene looked at him then, her expression clearly worried for their friend, but resigned at knowing there was nothing they could do at the moment. Sherlock's eyes squinted and he sighed, then shook his head to rid himself of cumbersome thoughts and resumed his search. The three of them continued to move, ignoring Greg's calls and Moriarty's laughter in the background.

 _'Now, how can you get Dark Magic?'_ He pondered, as they moved through people's legs. Suddenly, the rebel bumped into a pair of very familiar shoes, an atrocity that could not be hidden no matter how long the hem of the wearer's dress was. Perhaps he had helped Molly with her hair but her fashion sense still needed a lot of work. And ironically, it was at that moment when the answer came to him, stemmed by that mundane notion. He ran his hands through his bright purple hair and gasped in revelation it provided, smirking when he saw the resolution staining his left hand.

He stopped, John taking a few more steps before realising Sherlock was not following anymore. "I have a plan." He breathed out, and it was followed by a relieved smile breaking over the blonde's face. John dusted off his hands and swiftly sat on his legs to await further information, which Sherlock was happy to provide. "We need to go back." He explained.

"And what are you going to do about _him_?" Irene asked, arching an eyebrow at him in incredulity and motioning the glowing dragon casting curses over the attendees.

The violet-haired boy smiled mischievously. "You and Lestrade keep them both occupied. Away from us." He ordered. She nodded, but didn't seem completely pleased with her role. "Also, I'm gonna need that lipstick I gave you." The boy said, and The Woman frowned in confusion —a look also shared by the royal— but shrugged and handed the item over. After that, they swiftly passed by to the trickiest places, rushing to return to the thick of it. Once all of them had reached a clearing where they could stand up without being seen —much— The Woman stood aside, waiting for them to dart away; the king gazed at the rebel with curious eyes. "And what do I do?" He whispered.

"I need you to paint." Sherlock replied as Irene's figure was slowly fading away by distance. "What-" John confusedly started to ask, but was cut off by his arm being yanked as the younger boy turned around with his hand on his wrist; the both of them racing away and getting lost among the crowd.

* * *

Sherlock seriously hoped what he had plotted would work —there was no way to be sure of the results since he had never had the chance to do something like this— because if it didn't he had no other idea how to even begin to challenge such a creature. And he din't mean the glowing flying beast made of raw magic, but the maniac man in a suit commanding it.

Sherlock continued crawling through the crowd, he had instructed John to paint the circle with the lipstick; it was a simple enough task, and the king would not disappoint him, there was not way he ever could; but still Sherlock was hesitant to hope everything would go as planned. There were too many variables that could make everything go up in flames, and there was only so much efficiency he could achieve with a circle drawn by a mortal and shaking hand.

He approached the middle, where there was a huge space clear of people around the rejoicing figure of James Moriarty. He had his arms up and stood victorious amidst the chaos. The violet-haired boy couldn't help but note how, despite the crown, Moriarty was more of a jester than a king.

"Just surrender," Moriarty coaxed, clearly bored of just chasing after one of his companions instead of the one he actually wanted to torment. However, he must not be completely tired since Sherlock suspected that, if he hadn't found him yet, it was not for lack of ability, but for lack of trying. "This is what you wanted."

Once he was just behind the powerful figure, the boy took a moment to breathe, having to admit that no matter how much he despised Jim at the moment, he was spot on, the complete truth of the revelation was almost enough to make Sherlock hesitate. This happening right then had been what he had planned, then why did it feel so unfathomable now? There was no time for pondering more on the subject, since at that moment he heard John call for him in the distance, the signal in which they had agreed as a call to action.

Sherlock crawled further into view and, reciting the words in his head, he reached out his blood-soaked hand to grab James' leg. The criminal may have stolen his powers from the greatest magical source in the realms, but the boy had something he didn't. The witchcraft Jim possessed was not his, and, as portrayed by his brightly coloured purple hair, Sherlock had actual dark magic cursing through his blood and just one touch…

Once his skin made contact with the maniac, the dragon let out an ear-piercing shriek and Moriarty growled enraged. The beast started falling from the sky and Jim turned his head in his direction, looking for the stupid being that dared to attack him in such a way. Sherlock smiled up innocently at him, "I believe you were looking for me?" He said, but the other didn't find it the least bit funny, for once.

The glowing dragon laid struggling on the grown, as if restrained to the floor by invisible chains into the hastily-drawn red circle on the marble. The curse in the boy's blood was eating away at the other's incantation like a disease, trying to bind it in the darkness of oblivion for eternity. It would not be able to, obviously, it wouldn't even contain it for long, but at least like this he had more time to devise what to do next without being cursed into the next century.

The criminal grabbed the boy by his wrist and yanked him up. Standing almost eye to eye in confrontation as the red hand-print was still burning on the older man. "Moriarty." Sherlock said, like a victim was prepared to acknowledge his executioner. His eyes squinting in earnest as he observed the monster in front of him.

The howl of frustration coming for the winged beast a mere backdrop mixing with the gasps and the worried mutter of everyone presently captive. "Haven't you had enough of this nonsense?" James asked, the exasperation painting his voice.

Sherlock took a second to let his silver gaze wander around, looking at the horrified expressions. The ceiling was gone and the dark sky was completely black, not a single trace of stars was present. The boy had lived most of his life with a night sky such as this, but know that he knew different; well, nothing else would ever compare to the real thing. "Ugh." James muttered in disgust, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders and digging his claw-like digits in his skin. "Why do you care for them?" He asked, not knowing how wrong he was.

"I don't care one single bit about them." Sherlock replied, a sneer present in his words. And while that may be true in most of the cases, he chose to omit the fact that there were a few —very few— exceptions to the statement, but Jim definitely needed to be kept in the dark about it. Moriarty's smile let him know how much he believed that and Sherlock grimaced but kept his head up, not showing one ounce of vulnerability, if he did, Jim would pounce at it at the barest of signs.

 _'Once the beast is contained, what do you do before it escapes?'_ Sherlock thought frantically, even if he didn't show outwardly. The rousing dragon was clearly close to freeing himself, and once unrestrained, he would be impossible to catch again. So what could he do to make sure that didn't happen? _'You defeat the person controlling it.'_

In the distance Irene and Greg had stoped running, and were now watching their confrontation. They were smart, they knew there was nothing they could do, Sherlock wasn't even sure there was anything _he_ could do. The violet-haired boy closed his fists and attempted to stay calm at the notion. He was running out of time, soon the dragon would come for him and _consume_ him, and he was afraid of what would be left of him if it did.

"Who do you think you are to defy me, then?" Moriarty asked, as he tilted his head in consideration, hypocritically raising both his eyebrows to look down on him. His eyes shifted to the glowing draconian creature and Sherlock didn't need to turn around to know it must be moving, close to be able to thrust into the air and reclaim its place as victorious in this battle. The expression on the maniac's face was enough to have Sherlock panting from adrenaline. To his left, he could feel John's blue eyes watching him.

The rebel was swiftly rushing inside his Mind Palace, nothing there could help him. He wouldn't be defeated by something he had learned, he had to strip away all those facts and numbers, strip out of his skin unto his bones. Perhaps even deeper than that. All he ever knew was how to set things on fire, and plan what to do with the ashes as he watched the world going up in flames. Ruthless to a fault. It was the only thing that would work, to finish the hard and breakable as crystal relationship. This right now, was when he would finally come to know what remained of him when you took away everything else.

Because there was something he _could_ do. He had tried to avoid it, escape from it, but it looked as if he had exhausted all other options, and it was time to make a decision. He closed his eyes and did just this, and just like that the fear, and the adrenaline, and the anxiety of his indecisiveness was gone. Replaced instead with peaceful acceptance. After weeks and weeks of questioning himself, up to the point where he believed he was going to become insane or tear out all his bright hair were he unable to find an answer, he finally knew. That is what he was made of, and it didn't matter who was responsible. The fire he had stolen was just his, and this, right here, was who he was.

"You're about to find out." His words were final, calm and seemingly without emotion. In no way confident in what the resolution of such statement would be, but accepting to whichever end it would bring him. Be it light or eternal darkness.

James stared at him for a moment, deciding whether if he was actually capable of finding a small creature such as the boy worthy of concern. After a few seconds of silence, he laughed. "You are such a moron, there's nothing you can do." The criminal said, sure of his imminent victory, ready to wonder what he would do to Sherlock once he did win. The magical dragon broke the chains, and came to stand behind his master. Shadowing him and spreading his wings to mimic Jim's movements.

The criminal's eyes became green again, and the violet-haired boy was able to feel the Dragon's spell inside his head once more. He tried to shake it off, flush him out, but the incantation was strong; and soon enough his kaleidoscope gaze stayed fixed on that colour too.

The reason why The Dragon's witchcraft was so dangerous and so effective, was due to its dueling completely with the subject's psyche, from the suggestion up to the physical manifestation of said internal magic —which came from the mind— into a sentient creature. And there was a way, something Sherlock had feared his whole life, not really knowing the reason. But now here he stood, living his old foreshadowed nightmare with his own personal ghost.

 _'How do you defeat them.'_ He pondered, staring straight at the manic smile and the glowing green eyes from the other. _'You don't.'_

"But you made me, remember?" Sherlock said. Standing tall and not daring to look down, as if that would break the moment and make him fall from the tightrope. There was nowhere left to hide from the collision. The spell was strong, ripping at his thoughts, yet it had an offside, an emergency button if you went too far; Sherlock could attempt to trap him inside, not able to leave the premises of his own mind games ever again, but there was a price. There was always a price.

His eyes kept shifting between his imminent demise before him, and the blonde boy behind the looming figure. His kind and worried gaze was stripping him of every other thought he possessed. The expression he found in the other was almost enough to soften his resolve, but he was not allowed to falter now. He needed the monster, and monsters were not allowed that which he wanted. Muttering a silent goodbye, Sherlock felt cold run through his limbs, colder than he had felt in cycles, but he shrugged it off, not having time to dwell on it. Moriarty was ready to attack, and the boy could recognise this time there would be no dancing around the issue. If he didn't act now, he would never get the chance again. He had to do it: this atrocity he was born to do.

In the end, he always had the best teacher.

"So this is me, doing whatever it takes to win." He said as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He let the spell's demons grow in his head, let them eat away and consume everything in their path. He clenched his fists tightly, and opened the door to their unadulterated magic, all the while reciting the words he had learned. A searing pain rushed through him and the only thing he could see were angry green eyes before everything turned pitch white.


	12. Chapter 11: The Opposite Mayhem

**Chapter 11: The Opposite Mayhem**

 _Mayhem is recommended when one strives for something wickedly entertaining._

 _A situation gone, or driven out of the rails of control and into the most exciting experience._

 _For better results, make sure to include reckless behaviour and destructive actions._

* * *

Sherlock could tell something was wrong right away. For one, his limbs ached deeply, as if he had fallen from a very high distance, and there was also a strange luminescent quality to his surroundings. He had awoken in an unfamiliar room; the walls a mixture of rundown and apparently new, as if they were very old yet completely unused. Silence stretched out into the air, so predominant that even his own movements caused the loudest of screeches in comparison. He couldn't quite recall what had happened before he got where he was, nothing apart from the fact that he had recited some incantation inside his head and there had been a terrible pain raking all over his body; after that, there was nothing. Nothing and then, here.

His opal grey eyes searched around him for some indication of what had happened, and how had he managed to transport himself to an unknown location so quickly, specially since he had discarded his coronation suit and was now standing there draped in his signature coat once more.

He walked up to a door, and he slowly reached out his hand to open it. Once the wood swung open, he was welcomed into another room, quite similar to the one before, except for the fact that this one had no ceiling and a great and mighty waterfall was letting heaps of water into it; yet the level of it never rose, it remained steady as the water that would be supposed to heighten it disappeared out of sight.

Sherlock eventually figured out wherever he was couldn't be a dream, as his aching figure complained by the strain of walking and his hand still had the blood from where he had cut himself on the floor of the cathedral.

At the lack of any other option, he kept walking, moving from room to room until he would be able to figure out what had happened; always a different space after every door, yet never a way out. Endless string of assortments, each more confusing than the last. After a while, the quiet was gone, and had been instead replaced with muffled sounds and sentences, and it was only when he recognised one phrase in the chaos, said to him several cycles prior then and carefully stored among his memories, that he understood where, exactly, he had been trapped.

It was a distressing surprise. Not the fact that he had been locked away inside his own mind, —although that was also quite alarming in its own right— but rather the fact that he had been so painfully slow to catch up with something which he had deliberately intended to do. The moment he recited that last word of the spell he knew what would happen, even if experiencing it would undoubtedly be different, he had been completely aware of what he was allowing to happen in an attempt to stop Moriarty. Which was the only comfort he felt at the situation, if he was there, that meant Jim must be trapped somewhere too, someplace in the darkest part of his mind in which Sherlock failed to determine what could possibly inhabit.

The words continued, and the rooms didn't cease from appearing either. So Sherlock kept wondering around until he had run himself tired and oh-so-very bored by it. The violet-haired boy stopped in one of the rooms, a landscape similar to the borders of The Isle, edged by an ocean and filled to the brim with discarded objects.

He paused his movement, the still waters making him anxious. He leaned a bit and stared into the deep blue tranquility, not really recognising why it was suddenly such a frightening sight, yet he couldn't draw his eyes away. Standing still and staring into the vastness of its deep underwater mysteries. An eternity of possibilities lurking down there, but confusing him by being familiar for some reason. The voices became louder then, almost screaming at him phrases he had thought he had forgotten, or regarded as unimportant when he should have been paying attention.

Sherlock jumped back, standing up straight again and hastily impatient to put as much space as possible between him and the tranquil waves. He approached another door, and just when he was about to turn the knob, a watery voice called out his name and made him halt his movement, turning around to look for the source of said noise. When he found none he carefully opened the door, only for him to feel an invisible force pushing at his chest insistently and violently throwing him backwards into the infinite abyss.

* * *

He opened his eyes to bright natural light. An array of blurred figures appearing on his sight and blocking some of the glare hitting his sensitive eyes. Faces were staring down at him and the soft, blue carpet supported his body, as a cool hand patted him in the cheek to get his attention. "Sherlock?" A soft, worried voice said above him.

The boy blinked and waited for his vision to clear a bit. John's face becoming more defined by the second. His smiling expression very prominent on his sight. "That was tedious." Was all Sherlock could mutter from where he was lying on the floor, rubbing his purple head trying to wrap his mind around the developments. After a few seconds, he recognised several other people peering down at him in concern.

"What happened?" Irene asked. And Sherlock stared up at her, watching all their bewildered expressions and not being able to deduce the cause. Him blacking out could be quite distressing, but it did not account for the haunted mood he sensed among them all. His deduction powers were failing, he supposed he should make John check him for a concussion once he had some answers.

"I-" He muttered, but his hoarse voice impeded him from finishing without clearing it, once he had, he tried again. "I'm not sure, I was-" He said, hastily running over everything that had happened before that strange Mind Palace episode. One glaring detail coming forth as the most important, one that he should have never forgotten in the first place. "Moriarty." The sigh of realisation that left his lips brought its own set of apprehensive thoughts and rage, if he was here, then… "Where is he? I have to-" He demanded, hastily standing up in wobbly legs, ready to chase down and tear apart if necessary.

"Calm down, It's fine." John said softly, as he wrapped his arm around his flailing frame and supported enough of his weight for the other to stand up fully and not fall on his face. "He's right over there, unconscious." He motioned to his left, and the others around him nodded in agreement. The violet-haired boy frowned as he searched John's eyes for any sign of deceit. Once he found none, he sighed in acceptance, but was not able to refrain himself from shaking away from the king's arms and running to the figure sprawled on the marble flooring anyway.

The sight of the one that had tormented —yet filled so much of— his life, laying there, almost dead to the world was bizarre to witness, but at the same time, only at the second he could see it with his own eyes was he able to let out a breath of exhausted relief. "It worked." He whispered, not really able to believe he had managed to pull his outlandish plan off. There had never been any question of who, between them, would win when it came to ruthless violence against each other, and that wasn't him. Yet somehow, against all predictions, he had managed to do it, and that fact left him slightly wrong-footed at not understanding how all the wrong steps he had taken had, by some unknown means, ended up with him standing there and Moriarty consumed inwards into his own psyche. He supposed he would never know, and that thought alone was more torturous than he needed at the moment.

"Indeed, it did." A feminine voice came from behind him, Sherlock twirled around to find Lady Hudson smiling knowingly at him, her lithe arms crossed in a dutiful figure but her old, kind eyes squinted in delight. "That was a powerful spell, young man," She admitted, which made the rebel look around to check if anyone else had also witnessed this surprising turn of events, or whether the bump in the head was acting up more than he thought. "You should be up there trapped too." Lady Hudson said, bringing him out of his reverie by poking him in the forehead to make her point. Sherlock ran a hand though his violet hair and shrugged, not having enough data to answer. What was he supposed to say: _'I didn't really know what I was doing? It was sort of an accident? I, too, am worried on why he's like that and I'm not?'_ Somehow he suspected none of these explanations would cut it, not when the enchantress in front of him had centuries of experience over him, and he was just an admittedly very clever miscreant with a half-thought plan and vicious determination.

"Worked?" Greg asked as he peered closely at his friend's face. His strong arms resting on his hips in demand. "What worked?" He said, matching the confused look every other present had decided to portray. The fists inside his fingerless gloves, clenching and releasing as he always did when he could determine danger around him, as if anxious for a fight.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Lady Hudson was quicker wrapping her thoughts into a coherent sentence. "He used the reversal incantation to lock Moriarty inside his own mind." She explained, and there was a pregnant silence in the room for a few moments. All of them astonished at the news of what he had unwittingly accomplished. The first to recover was, surprisingly, the new king who quickly approached the violet-haired boy once more, and, in a fit of spontaneous affection, wrapped his sturdy arms around his waist and hoisted him up in the air in celebration. "John!" The rebel complained in disgust, patting the blonde's shoulder to get him to put him back on the ground once more, where he belonged. John laughed that honest laugh as Irene and Lestrade chuckled in amusement behind them. Sherlock shot them both a nasty, murderous look; but once his sight reached the royal, his eyes turned slightly more charmed and the glare lost some of its heated intensity.

"You're amazing!" John exclaimed and continued to smother him in human contact —which he knew Sherlock hated, fact that made the boy suspect he was purposely doing this for that exact reason— and grinned conspiringly at the others.

"I'm regretting this already." The silver-gazed muttered and rolled his eyes. Not entirely up for that level of cheerfulness after the events of the day. He was still reeling at everything that had transpired in just one morning, and the thought about what his future would look like was too complicated to contemplate at the moment. Also, he would be caught dead before he ever admitted, or even showed, that very deep down in his mischievous soul, he enjoyed every second John payed him enough attention to annoy him.

"Next time I rescue you, okay?" The royal said, looking pointedly at the rebel, his expression sure and demanding. The boy struggled to keep from laughing as he recognised that tone John always seemed to use when he was scolding him for something.

"Knowing me, you'll probably have countless opportunities." Sherlock smirked, and bent over to pick up the discarded crown off the floor. He turned around and placed it perfectly over the blonde hair. He took a step back to asses the look, John smiling but not meeting his eyes in confused awkwardness; but Sherlock frowned and wrinkled his nose at that: there was something wrong with the picture. The violet-haired boy took a step closer once more and reached out to skew the golden crown on his head, grinning a cheeky smile when he was finally satisfied with the more adventurous result.

Irene pursed her lips in a dangerous smile, foreboding all the blackmailing material she was already planning to use in her favour. "You managed to get out of the spell," She commented, skeptically crossing her arms and putting all her weight on one hip. "How did you do that?" The Woman asked, taking a few steps towards them but glancing around in contemplation, once her gaze fell back on the rebel she smirked knowingly.

"I really don't know." Sherlock admitted, turning to look over his shoulder at every Auradon inhabitant still present and witnessing the undeniable truth. "I didn't even know I could do that." And wasn't that just the biggest punchline? He had finally overthrown the big shadow that had ridden passenger seat during the majority of his life, and he didn't even really know how he had managed it.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something?" Lestrade replied, the amused tone was entirely not appreciated by the violet-haired boy. Greg chuckled along John and Irene, as Sherlock turned his accusatory gaze to the king: wasn't he supposed to be on his side? "This really _is_ an extraordinary day." The amazement was painted all over his face.

Apart from the jest, Sherlock could deduce he truly considered the day to have been exceptional, and in a way the boy agreed with that, down to his bones, so he said: "Oh, piss off." There was no need to let Greg be aware of that and suddenly believe he could start acting like he had an idea all on his own which the rebel actually regarded as true. His friend grimaced and shoved his shoulder in retaliation, stepping aside and throwing his arms up in exasperation.

John smiled up at the taller teen, with his big blue eyes and that glinting crown on top of his ridiculous head. Sherlock rolled his eyes, because it should be disgusting and cheesy, but yet he found himself thinking the image of a royal looking at him with anything other than animosity or horror was second to none other, —despite his earlier assumption— considering it was the right royal.

Irene and Lestrade retreated, as did Lady Hudson to chase after her granddaughter. John and Sherlock stayed there, watching Moriarty's body silently while the crowd dispersed. Two lonely figures regarding a terrible threat without knowing exactly how to proceed. The silver-gazed shuffled his feet and attempted to gain back his breath, a breath that he felt he had been holding since he first devised this plan and found out spelled cookies could be the worst thing that could happened to a person like him.

"Will he be like that forever?" The blonde asked, bringing him back from that trailing notion. His expressive face betraying how much he didn't wish to set his hopes high, only for Moriarty to waltz back into their life in a return from oblivion to haunt them once more.

The rebel's mouth quirked up in a side smile, glad that at least _that_ he could give to John. He could provide that small piece of mind he so needed. "Yes." He said, returning his gaze to the floor. "You can stop worrying now."

"I don't believe I ever will." The other responded.

A few seconds passed in relative silence —with the other royals still distressed by the events and rushing about to get the cursed people on stretchers and out to get magical aid. All of this, coordinated by the former King and Queen, of course. The rebel wondered why John was not there helping, since his first instinct would have characteristically been to make sure his people were safe, but perhaps now that his parents had taken care of that, he was left staring down in apprehension at Jim, as if making sure there was no way for him to bounce back to life and destroy them.

"Well, he always did regard himself as _'a man of the mind'_." Sherlock quipped as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of the plum blazer he was still wearing, finding it hilarious: The two of them, just standing there dumbly as if nothing of importance had happened.

"Yeah." John said between chuckles. "A bit not good." He commented, statement that was completely killed off by his grinning face and the sparkling his eyes were doing as he looked at Sherlock.

"Yes, you're probably right." The violet-haired boy conceded, and turned his gaze away from the criminal, only for them both to burst out laughing nervously at the scene.

In that moment, a voice was heard behind them that made Sherlock's blood run cold; not out of fear, but because he had no idea how he was going to face his lost brother right now. "Can you two behave?" The older man said, and the boy clenched his fists in frustration at not knowing how to react. Thankfully, John took care of that for him when he excitedly exclaimed: "Mike!" He said as both of them turned to find Mycroft, no longer made of ice, standing before them and clutching an umbrella. Sherlock recalled him as the most stoic human from when they were small, now however, his face was betraying a myriad of emotions. Deep sadness, and slight exasperation mainly, but also a flicker of joy when his sight locked with the rebel's.

"Or well, I mean," John stuttered once he recognised what exactly was happening, and how much he was intruding. "Mycroft." He amended, standing straighter and nodding in acknowledgement. "You know, I'll just-" He babbled dumbly, but he suspected none of the others present was paying attention. He took a small step back to allow the two brothers to get reacquainted.

"Sherlock." Mycroft was the first one to talk, calling his name as he had not been able to do for so many cycles. The violet-haired was not ready to answer, he just took a moment to notice all the differences about the other that he never thought he would have the chance to observe. His brother had always been a tiny adult, even if he was way too young when they were separated to remember any clear details. A familiar stranger in his own right.

There were endless questions he wanted to ask him, the things he wanted to say too many to count. So much he didn't even really know where to begin.

"You gained weight." Was what he settled on.

Mycroft seemed surprised for a second, clearly not expecting their first conversation after thirteen cycles to be about that particular subject, yet the smirk that quickly made its way to his face said he had no reservations about it. Apparently any topic was as good as any when it came to them. "Lost, actually." He commented, his familiar upper, posh accent distracting Sherlock from what he really wanted to talk about.

"You never came back." The violet-haired boy commented, not reproachfully any more; in some way, he understood what it was like to make choices which were not even under your control. The limitation of options when someone in the world is the way they are. His opal eyes searched the other's expression, changing between questioning and contemplating, as he believed his brother would be doing with him as well.

"I tried," Mycroft responded, a dangerous edge to his voice, and if daring the other to imply he hadn't tried hard enough. "However a magical dome is beyond even my mortal capacity." His hands shifted over the handle of his umbrella, and his shoulders were back as in defiance. Holmes' never took too well at admitting personal shortcomings; Mycroft being a mortal with no magic, clearly believed he had many of those. Sherlock could see the sincerity in his eyes, and in turn nodded in acceptance, letting go of things which he couldn't change.

The older sibling, sensing they had reached a silent understanding raised his eyebrows and regarded the other teen present. John stood back trying to appear as if he wasn't listening in and failing terribly under the combined deduction power of the both of them. Now that John was watching them together, he could see a resemblance so obvious he wondered how he had missed it on the first go. "Perhaps it was for the best." Mycroft said, pretending to shake off a lint off his impeccable suit."Never quite had your talent with the world of villainy."

"You were rubbish." They other concluded. Remembering fully well that if there was something his brother couldn't handle, it was a world of unleashed chaos. Which happened to be the defining trait of both, The Isle and Sherlock himself.

"He's actually really good at this, you know?" The king chose that moment to intervene, looking at both of them with amazement. Clearly still trying to figure out how it was possible that his life-long best friend had ended up being his boyfriend's big brother. "He's practically been running the kingdom for the last three cycles." He admitted, which was so very true no one in the realm would dare deny it.

"Well, he was never able to keep his large nose out of everyone else's business." Sherlock smirked, but the shifting of his weight on each his feet was telling enough about his inability to determine what to do after all this time had passed. Acerbic remarks were always where he ended up falling back when in doubt, yet, somehow, he knew Mycroft may understand it.

"It's good to see you, baby brother." The ginger said, an aloof and unreadable expression across his face once more. He turned around and made to leave as he swung his umbrella from side to side. Nonchalant in every sense of the world, except to the ones looking closely.

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" The violet-haired boy demanded at his retreating form. He was frowning and his eyes were definitely raging at the frustration of being so wrong-footed. He turned to look at John as if attempting to search for an ally in this discombobulating outrage.

"What indeed?" The older brother called back, and disappeared out of sight between the sea of people, leaving a dumbstruck Sherlock behind.

The boy blinked in confusion and sighed. "So, yes." He concluded, after the whirlwind of events had died down inside of him. "He's still as insufferable as I remember." He said, only for them both to collapse in giggles for the second time that morning. Sherlock took a moment to amaze in how quickly his mood had changed once Moriarty and the wand were not looming over him anymore. Speaking of Lady Hudson's wand, it was still clutched on his left hand as if embed into his skin. "Wait here." He said to John and walked over to where the Defender of Light was standing lecturing a blue-gown-clad Molly.

"I believe this belongs to you." He said when he reached them and extended his arm towards them. Lady Hudson raised her arms in surprise, but smiled once the magical artefact was retrieved.

"And I believe _this_ ," She said, as she procured John's golden ring from her pocket, which she had probably found discarded among the commotion. "Belongs to you, dear." She dropped it on his hand and her kind eyes regarded him in respect. Sherlock reverently slid the ringlet on his finger like the king had done a few hours prior, then he noticed Molly shifting her feet beside them, obviously regretful of her outburst from earlier. The violet-haired boy found he couldn't possibly blame her from wanting to resort to magic as her ultimate choice, he had been that desperate only seconds before.

"Listen," He addressed Lady Hudson, his shoulders set in determination. "I was the one who put all those insidious thoughts in Molly's head." The rebel confessed, watching the girl show gratitude all over her figure.

"Oh, I know." Martha responded, swatting him in the arm for his troubles. Her eyes looking at him in disapproval. "And I shall expect you all at intensive _Remedial Goodness 101_ next Monday, young man." She said sternly, to which Sherlock could only chuckle lightly and shrug. "Fair enough." He responded as she nodded in understanding and took her leave to aid the victims of Moriarty's insane attack.

Sherlock was left standing there with Molly, feeling like the height of idiocy personified. "I wish I could make an argument against magic, but well…" He commented and waved his arm at the people being rolled away for magical care. He believed nothing he could say could possibly convey his meaning. Magic was such a destructive thing, but for him, it could also be something so wonderful, its destructiveness just one of the aspects of why he now found himself incapable of possessing any desires of walking away despite having only being acquainted with it for a few moon-cycles.

"Yes." The girl agreed, her hands fidgeting in nervousness but her expression showing him she understood exactly what he meant. "But maybe I shouldn't listen to your suggestions anymore either way." Molly concluded, even if her hand came up to brush aside a strand of her perfectly —magically— styled brown hair. Sherlock nodded along for lack of any other way to react. The both of them stayed in silence as they witnessed how Lady Hudson got people standing and 'cured' with just a wave of her platinum wand. Sherlock's eyes turned contemplative and Molly smiled sadly at him. "I guess I really got lucky on the family department." She said, startling the other to turn and regard her in surprise. His set mouth conveying how interested he was at her ability to read him so accurately. He had never encountered someone who could see through him so much, not even Irene, —although she came the closest— had mastered that particular skill in all their cycles of acquaintance, let alone in just a few weeks. The Woman could almost deduce what he was feeling, but there was never the sort of bone-deep understanding that Molly appeared to gain whenever she recognised what was flying through his mind. Perhaps —despite their contrasting choices at externalising said traits— Molly and him were not so different after all.

The silver-gazed took a step back and lightly bowed to her in gratitude for her loyalty. To which she responded in rushing to him and crushing him in a big hug. All of his others friends didn't do this, but Sherlock supposed he could tolerate it from her for a few moments, he _did_ manipulate her into what would probably cause her a myriad of problems.

Once she released him, she hurried away to talk with Donovan and Anderson who were approaching, and the violet-haired boy made sure to escape before he had to deal with _that_. He may have just decided not to cater to his villainous desires of overthrowing John's reign, but perhaps he was not yet ready for that sort of trial. He was really trying to fight the urge not to commit anything that might be deemed _'not good'_ right now, and it would be tremendously helpful if Anderson's utter idiocy was not anywhere in vicinity for that.

* * *

The commotion was dying down, and John couldn't be more grateful for it. He didn't believe any other king before him had already had to deal with an attack such as this on the day of his coronation. "Take him to the cell, and bring Lady Hudson to secure it with the highest of magic." He ordered one of his guards, as they were picking Moriarty's body up from his resting place and carried him away. "I don't want there to be any way for him to get out." He said, running a worried hand through his blonde strands.

He watched them hurrying away and sighed; he had no idea whether Moriarty was aware of what was happening, or if there was any way he would be able to break out of there. Sherlock had apparently managed to do it, —although not even him seemed able to determine how— so what made both cases any different? By any rights his boyfriend should be trapped too. One could rarely receive a favour from the other side such as this and give nothing in return. Those sort of deals did not exist in the world of black magic; and he would be lying if he said thinking about this fact didn't worry him out of his mind.

Irene and Greg were there, staring at him and exchanging knowing glances between them once they recognised his hunched, tired shoulders but his unwavering smile. At that moment, Sherlock approached once again, looking more at peace with his surroundings but still watching everyone as if they bored him to death. John supposed, now that the dangerous and interesting part was over, he would start feeling restless any second. The king decided then to cut all of their exhausting day off and finish his duties as soon as possible, so the kingdom could breathe easily once more.

"Everyone, may I have your attention?" He said as everyone around him silenced and turned to face him in respect. "The kingdom is safe, the threat is gone now." He assured, lifting his arms in a display of innocence and solace, attempting to soothe his scared realm. "However, we still have a bit of official business to attend to." The boy said and looked in regret at Sherlock; he knew he was probably not going to like the next part, but it was his duty as a ruler to right whatever wrong that had happened during his reign, specially if said trespass had been overlooked by himself directly.

"Sherlock Holmes," John took a deep breath and now addressed the boy who had so quickly become the best part of his days. He wished he was doing the right thing for him; since despite all of his mistakes, he had still accomplished to save them all from utter destruction. The issue wasn't even caused by him precisely in the end, —no matter if he had planned on doing that exact same thing, but didn't get a chance to— and he still had put himself on the line in order to stop the Villain Consultant, and that was a good thing in John's book. "You stand accused of conspiracy against the crown and attempted treason." He said seriously, attempting to convey his meaning as clearly as possible, he didn't condone of such behaviour and was fully expecting never to have them repeated in the future. The kingdom turned then to look at the violet-haired boy, who was standing there confidently, owning his actions entirely, but not appearing smug about them in the slightly. He accepted the truth about what he had done, but that didn't mean that he didn't know better now. "So, as king, I have no choice but to make you answer for your crimes." John could identify a sort of resigned sadness pass over the other's expression in a fleeting second. There and it was gone again, but it was enough to clutch at his already flayed heart-strings. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to feel attacked for what he had done for them.

"So, as of today, you will be banned from using any forbidden conjoury in all the magical realms." He stated, careful to keep his voice as professional and regal as he could, even if he knew nobody really expected it from him at the moment, after what had taken place. If he was to reign justly he needed to put the wellbeing of his people ahead of everything else. He just hoped Sherlock remembered The Isle of the Lost was still part of his realm, and that made the rebel his subject too.

"Also, as a service for the community, you'll be expected to aid in the lifting of the curses casted by Moriarty, and attend daily to your educational responsibilities with the according restrictions." Sherlock stuffed his hands inside his pockets, adopting an out-of-character vulnerable posture as he faced his trial in silence. All of him was so very far from what he had looked like when he first came into the kingdom that John could barely believe it was the same person, and yet his eyes remained the same. The blonde could see past the disappointment of his words and take a glimpse of the mischievous and dangerous nature that had always been present and that he dared to admit he found the most appealing. The silver gaze was fixed on him, as if awaiting for the guillotine to snap down, but John took a moment to faintly smile at him, silently asking him to just trust him. "And finally," He added, his voice soft and calm as he could make it while he ignored the confused frown appearing on the other's face. "I sentence you to carry out your punishment here in Auradon, where I will personally oversee the duties I have placed upon you to make up for your transgressions."

The shocked and hopeful expression that then broke out to the surface on the rebel was worth every second John spent trying to figure out how he was going to solve the incredible enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, and he was infinitely glad he had apparently made the right choice. The subjects present seemed as taken aback with his sentence as he was, but the royal couldn't find any objections among them, even Sally and Phillip stayed completely quiet. Silently accepting his decision for once. The new king watched as his parents stood at the back, proudly smiling at him for his justice and mercy, it made John wonder if perhaps Sherlock had been right all along —as per usual— and there was a way he could become a good monarch for his people. "Yes, my King." The younger boy was quick to reply, once the surprise had been processed and the doubt erased from his brain. John beamed, he would be a fool to give him up now that he had finally found him.

"Brilliant." John's smile was incandescent as he stepped up to approach the other. Greg reached the boy first and patted a friendly punch over Sherlock's shoulders. The violet-haired boy looked at him in annoyance but the delight in his posture was impossible to hide. Irene arched a perfect eyebrow at the new king as he passed her by, shaking her head and biting her bottom lip in respect as if saying _'you, smooth bastard'_ and motioned him to be hasty to his destination.

The blonde came to stand just before the architect of this whole thing, be it the chaos or the resolution, and he wondered how so much could be confined in a rebellious boy that enjoyed strawberries and sweets as much as he did causing trouble, and who was ready to face down a threat as big as the most feared living being on the world but was just a tiny bit anxious around heights and deep waters. Sherlock scrunched up his nose and regarded him silently, then asked casually, almost as if he were talking about nothing of importance. "So I get to stay in this hell?" He asked. John had to fight hard the urge to just fling himself at the rebel —whether to punch him or smother him in affection was yet to be determined— at the audacious tone with which he worded this.

"Yes, you're stuck here with me." He replied, raising his arms as if saying _'too bad',_ letting the other know how much he cared for his _false_ opinion about his perfect solution. If the violet-haired boy believed he would be allowed to push John over just because he was smarter and incredibly more expertly callous than him, he had another think coming his way.

Sherlock looked up and sighed in faux suffering. "It's going to be _torture_." He commented and the king did punch him this time, albeit playfully on the shoulder, and took the other's hand as if to symbolise that there was really no way of getting rid of him this time. The silver gaze peered down to where they were intertwined and its owner smiled secretly for a second, only to scowl in annoyance when he returned his sight back up and watched as Anderson was loudly inflicting his completely wrong opinions upon those nearby.

* * *

The festivity was in full throttle now, everyone in the kingdom eager to celebrate their joyous triumph —not really, most of them did nothing— against Moriarty. A collective attitude of carelessness as if they hadn't just watched death in the face and ran for their lives. Sherlock was completely aware that he was expected to celebrate too, at least to appear like he wanted to attend such a gathering, but that was of course not the case. He still had a lot to figure out about what had happened that day. He had to run though some aspects with Hudson —who was clearly more acquainted with the whole debacle— and figure out how the hell had he managed to outlive Moriarty, of all people. There was still a lot he didn't know, and he would rather spend his time searching for the answers than having to stand there, between people —the majority of which he despised— and act as if he was not feeling completely done with the whole thing. The only reason he was there, if he were being honest, was because the king had to attend, and had asked him to accompany him, and there was no way he could have said no, even if he had tried.

He was aware of how dangerous the power John had over him was, but he saw no way out of it, and he doubted he would find it any time soon. If Sherlock stopped to think for more than one moment about it, he would find it appalling, disgusting even, how much he was invested in the blonde boy, and how much he didn't wish to change his situation. The royal had tore down all of his carefully built defences from the very beginning, as if they hadn't been made strong enough to resist him, and had managed to utterly destroy him in the process. Sherlock was amazed to find he didn't mind any of this. Still, that didn't mean he had to enjoy the stumbling drunk idiots at the party. So, as soon as he could slip away, he stepped outside to get come fresh air and light up a cigarette.

Out on the balcony at the side of the castle, there was someone leaning over the railing. Contemplating the scenery of the kingdom below. The figure she made clad in sparkling rose and blue was contrasting against the darkness of the night. The violet-haired boy found no reason why he could not share the space with her; despite everything else, she at least was tolerable.

He approached the edge and took out a smoke, discreetly lighting it up with a magical flame, and he took a long and much needed drag. His eyes were closed as he exhaled, and once he felt the calm of tobacco sweep over him, he was able to open his eyelids to the light and landscape that conformed the realm. The little sparkling lights of the town, the dark forest and beyond, a vast expanse of water and the gloomy silhouette of the island in the distance.

"You are not allowed to smoke those here, you know?" Mary said from beside him, her hands tightly clutching the jumper she was wearing against the cold air of the night. "John won't like it." She added, but her expression showed how much impact she believed her suggestion would have with someone like Sherlock. Said boy, wondered then, why she bothered saying it in the first place.

"John would like the alternative even less." He replied smirking, knowing full well that his —now past— opiate habits would not come as a surprise to anyone. The boy looked at her and deliberately took another drag, smirking as the puff of smoke went off his system. The princess scoffed a laugh, but she did not comment further on the subject.

Silence fell between them for a while, as the rebel finished his cigarette and she grew tired of watching the scene. Sherlock felt his shoulders relax and his body letting go of the last of his apprehension. A satisfied side smile making its way over his face now that he had time to reflect on the unforeseeable events.

"So, is it over?" The girl in pink spoke again, and the silver-gazed did not need clarification of what she meant. They all knew he was the schemer behind the whole thing. Yes, Moriarty had been the instigator, but if he had laid low and just refused to play his game none of it would have happened; he was even responsible for Molly snatching the wand first. "Are you done now?" She posed the question firmly, but her tone wasn't accusatory. Sherlock thought Mary was not as insufferably dull when she was not desperately trying to guard a stupid and inconsequential truth.

He contemplated his answer, and quickly drew up the possibility of him pulling a stunt such as that. There was no accurate or reliable way of telling, but he thought he must answer with the few facts he had right then. "Probably." He said, as the princess searched his face for sincerity. She then, nodded in acceptance when she figured she would have to trust his word for now and wait and see what time would unveil.

"And you'll take care of him for me, won't you?" Her tone was uncertain, as she looked at him and fidgeted with a button on her jumper.

"Taking care of someone is not in my nature." Answered the rebel, deliberately turning away and watching the moving crowd through the glass on the balcony's doors. There was no way he should even be there, no logical explanation on why someone like him should found himself present. But here he was, standing in a suit, wearing the king's ring and chatting with a princess about caring for another human being. He could only say he had never seen _that one_ coming.

"Nor is it in John's nature to accept help," Mary replied and pinned back into place a strand of blonde hair that had fallen from her elegant binding. "But you're a clever boy," She said. Her eyes strayed away from him and took instead to looking at the party as well. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." It was her turn to smirk at him, and the other just rolled his eyes and settled.

The boy cleared his throat and ran a hand through his unruly purple curls. "I take it you wish for your secret to stay that way." He predicted; because Mary had not gone through the trouble of losing a boyfriend just so she would carelessly allow him to do as he pleased with the information. She would definitely want to make sure he didn't blabbed to anyone, and Sherlock just wanted to get past that conversation.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble." She replied. No other thing needed to ensure —as much as she could anyway— that he would remain silent.

"For now." He said, since he had no real gain from it. Perhaps it could serve useful in the future —what was it Irene always said: Secrets are insurance?— but it was useless to him at the moment. "You should tell John, though." He turned around and looked at her, as if attempting to convey his message, because doubting _him_ was understandable —hell, distrusting him was the most fucking smart thing you could do— but the blue-eyed was another matter altogether. "He'll surprise you." He was sure of it. After a few moments, Sherlock mutter under his breath, "He does that." Barely loud enough to hear, he doubted Mary even caught it.

"I'll think about it." She replied and smiled at him for the first time. "You should go back," Mary urged, as they both watched John inside pass by for the third time, glancing around and clearly searching for something in particular. "Your Majesty is looking for you." She said, and the boy took one last opportunity to read her. After a moment, he turned around and elegantly strode away from the rail and pushed the door that took him into the warm air of the celebration inside. Never sparing another glance to the figure frowning at his back.

* * *

A few hours later, found him still in the thick of it. John had had a bit to drink, but not nearly enough to be considered drunk. Sherlock and him were sitting at a table watching as Lestrade made a complete idiot of himself. A few moments in, the violet-haired boy turned away, uninterested in the proceedings now that he had watched them unfold for almost half an hour. He glanced around in search for something to interest him, when John noticed his fidgeting and turned to acknowledge him.

"You are a hero, you know." The blonde said, wearing a big smile that made his eyes squint and his nose wrinkle. Sherlock sighed in annoyance, he had no idea how he was going to convince John out of his delusions about his character. He hoped once the king eventually came to his senses he would still be allowed to stick around.

"I told you, John: heroes-" He started, but the blonde raised a hand and cut him off before he could finish his well-known statement.

"Don't exist, I know." John added. Rolling his eyes as the innocent expression never left his face. The violet-haired did say it rather a lot for the royal to learn it with such accuracy. "But still," The blonde added, placing a determined hand over the younger man's shoulder. "You saved us today."

Sherlock turned to look at him in surprise. That couldn't be right. That wasn't what he had done, _was it?_ "Moriarty had to be stopped." He concluded, extremely sure that was the sole intention he had had at the moment. All other thoughts of protecting John and defending the kingdom shoved to a corner of his Mind Palace where he could ignore them. "You all were just," He paused and waved his hand around in dismissal. "Collateral damage."

The blue-eyed shook his head and smiled. "No, I know you." He assured, and the trust the rebel could recognise inside his gaze made him stop and blink in confusion. He regarded him silently, and tilted his head to the side; the movement was quite intimidating to look at, but he intended only to analyse and deduce the impossible human in front of him.

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, his intense grey eyes boring into the turquoise pools of the other. An arched questioning eyebrow present.

"Yes, I am." The blonde responded, as his sight never wavered back to the party. "But don't worry, your secret is safe with me." The joke was lighthearted, as if he didn't have a worry in the world anymore. Sherlock believed that sort of optimism was highly dangerous, there were always things lurking about in the shadows, and one victory didn't make you immune to their threats. How was John able to be as ridiculous as this?

"Shut up, John." He said, but his harsh words didn't match the amused tone he carried. His hesitancy was not enough to overpower the intense joy that threatened to come to the surface once he looked at what he had gained. As impossible as it seemed, he felt genuinely satisfied for the first time in his life.

"Except for the statue I'll have made to commemorate your heroic deeds, of course." The king added, and Sherlock was not sure if he was actually kidding, but his horrified face must have communicated enough since the blonde bursted out laughing at his expense.

"Like I said." Sherlock commented. "Completely regretting it." He insisted.

At that moment a high-pitched voice cut through the roaring of the party and addressed them. "What are you two lover-boys doing now?" Irene asked, coming to sit next to Sherlock as Greg and Janine gathered close to watch the proceedings, interested —and fairly inebriated— faces on all of them.

"No." The violet-haired boy was quick to order. "Don't call us that." He said, in that tone he reserved for the most unpleasing aspects of life, drawing such a disgusted expression that made John grin and just unable to resist leaning in to kiss his cheek in affection. Sherlock swatted him away and scoffed even more.

"Why not?" Irene asked, "I think it suits you." She placed a hand over her chest, mockingly offended by his repulsion.

"No person wants to be called that." The boy was quick to grumble, completely aware of the entertainment that he was serving, which made him even more annoyed at the developments.

"I do." Lestrade pitched in, smiling brightly and reaching a hand to mess up the purple curls on top of Sherlock head.

"I said _person_." Replied the same rebel as he struggled to smooth out his wild ringlets. Glaring at him in animosity, as if foreboding the storm that would arrive once they were all out of the castle and back in their dorms.

"Okay okay. Calm down." Irene intervened. "Why don't you both come celebrate with us?" She grabbed John by the hand and yanked him up into standing. Janine and Greg already disappearing into the dancing crowd beneath the coloured lights.

"You go," Sherlock said to the king as he remained seated. Encouraging him to celebrate his coronation as if it were the only time he would be able to do so without the burden of the worry that came with ruling a kingdom. Which was exactly what would happen, he deduced.

"But-" The other wanted to protest, but the violet-haired boy just shook his head and shrugged. "I'll be fine." He said. "I need some time away from people anyway." The mischievous smirk he gave him was enough to convince the other.

John accepted his decision and both him and Irene made to leave the table to join in on the merriment. Before they went though, the girl came back for one last remark for her best friend. "I'm counting on John to shag this attitude out of you, you know?" She smirked with her blood red lips, as her almond eyes sparkled.

"Dully noted." Sherlock responded, with a bored tone painting his words as the others hurried away. "I heard that!" He could hear John say in the distance while they all laughed at her joke.

The rebel took a deep breath, ready to settle in for a few moments of lonely watching as the kingdom rejoiced in their victory against evil, witnessing a complete era ending before him. The realm and all its citizens would sleep fine tonight. Saved by an unlikely figure of the night who never thought he would encounter himself right in the middle of such a situation. Sherlock sat back in the dark corner of his table, and as the cheerful commotion went on in the dance hall, no one noticed his grey eyes turn bright green.

* * *

 **SEQUEL: 'THE FORGOTTEN OCEAN' AVAILABLE IN MY PAGE.**

 **Author's note: When I started this project I never really believed it was going to end up being so long or different, but I had a lot of fun writing it.**

 **So, I hope you all liked it and thank you to anyone who took the time to read it/comment/favourite.**


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